
Class. 
Book. 



i'RKsi:Nn:n m 





YOUJTH AND AGE. 



ILLUSTRATED 



HOME BOOK 



OF 



Poetry and Song. 



COxAIPRISING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE POETS OF 
ALL LANDS AND AGES. 



EDITED BY ELMO.c 



IaA;cvv6(. 



W(Wv<L?^\Ju, 



U ivrrwivi. tv -a 



With sixty full-page Engravings on Steel and Wood by Dalziel. 

McIntyre, Lumlfy, Cutts, Irene Jerome, Compte-Calix, 

De Haas, Hart, and other eminent Artists. 



CHICAGO : 
( ' A XTOiN F I F>LLSI1E\ G CO. 

1884. 







COPYRIGHTED, 

Belford, Clarke & Co. 
1884. 






DoNOHi'K ft Hfnneberry. Printers nnd Biiirler<;, Chicago. 



■^ 



PREFACE. 



It is impossible to over estimate the value of poetr5^ It stands 
in the front rank of those great educational forces that serve to 
develope and enrich the human mind. There is a habit— growing 
more and more common— on the part of some people, of speaking 
slightingly of poetry, as though it were almost exclusively the ex- 
pression of shallow sentiment. This habit is a pure affectation, to 
be accounted for mainly on the ground of general ignorance, and 
the absolute lack of any poetic faculty. 

It is a difficult thing to define poetry; some things are so great, 
so beautiful, so comprehensive, that they outrun all the limits of 
possible definition. Our scales are not large enough to weigh the 
high mountains; our balances are too small for the everlasting 
hills. Any definition of poetry that regarded it as the expression 
of sentiment only, would be both misleading and incomplete. The 
greatest and deepest truths of the ages have fallen from the lips of 
poets, from the days of Job to the poets of these later years. The 
gravest and the sweetest lessons of life have come to us robed in 
poetic garments; the gladdest messages of hope, and the saddest 
requiems of despair, have alike been swept from the poet's harp. 

Poets are the revealers and conservators of the highest truth. 
At their girdles hang the keys that lead to halls of solemn thought, 
and palaces of sweet enchantment; they are guides to nature's 
treasured glories, and the best exponents of her beauty. If they 
cannot solve all the problems of life, they at least succeed in in- 
vesting life with majestic meanings. Shakspeare, with firm and 
fearless tread, iias entered the secret chambers of heart and mind, 
and has penetrated the very Arcana of the soul; he has marched 
along the sounding corridors of history, and made dead heroes 
live; and, because he has dealt with primal and universal truths 
he has become not the English poet of the Sixteenth century 
alone, but the poet of all lands and ages. John Milton essayed 
the task of investigating the Origin of Evil, and wrought at his 
chosen work till Satan looked sublime, and the fallen chiefs of hell 
assumed an august mien. So fully did he expound that ''great 



4 PREFACE. 

disobedience," that there is but one conclusion left, and that is: — 
that man must indeed be great or he could not so greatly fall; and in 
that conclusion the poet discovers for us the only possible germ of 
future hope, Goethe has fathomed so completely the mystery of 
ever-recurring temptation, that he has made the world his debtor 
forever. 

These poets of the past, are kings and rulers in the realms of 
thought; kings who abide in power, untouched by the caprices of 
men, or even the revolution of years. 

"Behind their forms the form of Time is found, 
His scythe reversed and both his pinions bound." 

They were not singers of empty, barren songs; they did 
not challenge the world's attention to shallow sentiment; but set 
the greatest truths to glad, sweet, pensive music, and we, through 
the poets very largely, have become 

"The heirs of all the a^es in the foremost files of Time." 

The singers of the elder years deserve a high place in the 
world's grateful thought. They enriched all ages by their legacies 
of song; but they have had worthy successors in these later 
years. It requires diligent study to keep abreast of the growth of 
modern poetry. We 'may not have every year a Milton or a 
Longfellow, a Swinburne, a Lowell, or an Elizabeth Barrett 
Browning; but every spring time brings fresh flowers to make 
the waste places beautiful; and every autumn brings new corn to 
enrich the garners of the earth; and every year, new singers 
break the silence, and gladden the world's heart with melody and 
song; and, though the old wine may be richer by reason of its 
age, the new wine should not be despised. And such is the 
bountifulness of these later songs, that a large volume would be 
required annually to represent them fully. 

In this connection it may be remarked that the higher educa- 
tion of women which has obtained during the last thirty or fort}' 
years has done much to develope in them the poetic taste, if it has 
not actually inspired poetic genius. Thomas De Quincey believed 
and declared that a female poet was an impossibility, but Eliza- 
BETH Barrett Browning lived to prove how a great Essayist could 
be mistaken. From her quiet home in Wimpole Street, London, 
and later from Casa Guidi windows in Florence, she sang through 
much suffering such songs as have made good the claim of woman' 
hood to a lofty place in the temple of literature. Indeed, Peter 



PREFACE. 5 

Bayne, a critic of the first order and authority says, writing of 
Mrs. Browning: ''The reader may not be prepared to sympathize 
with me in the feelings with which I regard the poems of Mrs. 
Barrett Browning. * * * * Allowing that between 
her and Shakspeare, as well as between Shakspeare and many 
other men, there can be instituted no comparison; I, yet, deliber- 
ately assign her the same place among women that Shakspeare 
occupies among men." This is, indeed, high praise, but it is not 
without sufficient foundation. Mrs. Browning has set the prece- 
dent, and has been followed by such women as Jean Ingelow, and 
Adelaide Anne Procter; and, in the days to come, we may fairly 
anticipate large legacies of song from the daughters of the land. 

The Illustrated Home Book of Poetry and Song is the result 
of the study of many years, and aims to present in reasonable 
compass a comprehensive and exhaustive selection of the bright- 
est gems of poetry from ancient and modern mines. For the 
student, this book will be found to be invaluable, containing as it 
does the choicest and best selections from the poets of all lands, 
from Chaucer down to the last candidate for poetic fame. In the 
home, this selection is without a rival, and will be found to be 
eminently suitable for fireside reading. As a volume for presenta- 
tion, nothing could be more desirable. 

The editor, from different standpoints, has surveyed the 
whole field of poetry, and with long and patient care has sought 
to gather together in the following pages, only what is best. No 
great poet has been overlooked, and many unknown poets have 
been introduced. The singers of the olden times have not been 
forgotten. He has turned the pages of ancient books 

" Or at times a modern volume. Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, 
Howitt's ballad- vei'se, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie— 
Or from Browning- some ' pomegranate,' which, if cut deep do-svn the middle 
Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity." 

Great care has been taken in the arrangement of a three-fold 
index to authors, subjects, and first lines, to make the Illustrated 
Home Book of Poetry and Song a book of easy reference. 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



Youth and Age— S. T. Coleridge, ______ Compte-Calix. Frontispiece. 

Poetry — W. E. Channing, _________ Irene Jerome 6 

The Watering Place— _/rt?«?j Thomson, _______ Lightfoot 33 

Silent Sorrow — "Eimo" __________ Boot 40 

The Brooklet — Sir Robert Grant, _________ Swain 43 

Playing with Love — Giiy Rosiyn, _________ Dalziel 47 

The Welcome — Thomas Davics, _-__-____ Cutts 51 

Once AND For Aye — Author of ''^ Songs of Ki Harney " ______ Hollidge 55 

O'er Sunny Seas— ^. ^. /"ror/t'^-, _ _ _ . _ _ _ Irene Jerome 81 

The Shell — Afionymozis, - - - - _ _ _ _ _ Irene Jerome 85 

Yes — Afionymotis, ----------- Buckman 89 

Absence — Frances Anna Kemble, --------- Pearson 93 

Over the Mountains High — Bjornson, ______ Irene Jerome 9T 

To THE Daisy — W. Wordsworth, ________ Irene Jerome 101 

An Autumn \t>\i.— James Thomson, ________ McLntvre 105 

At a Modern Shrine — E.J.M., _________ Harral 109 

By the \^i\A^?,— Anonymous, _________ Lumley 113 

Paths of the Fields— ^K. C. Bennett, _______ Irene Jerome 119 

Sunbeams Pour their Tide— _/o//« Keble, ______ Irene Jerome 125 

The Water of Life — Saint John, ________ Irene Jerome 129 

Summer Studies — Harriet Beecher Stowe, ______ Irene Jerome 137 

Blossom Time — Ina D. Coolbrith, -------- Irene Jerome 163 

Chastelard to Mary Stuart — Gi/y Rosiyn, _______ Harral 181 

Red and White — B. M. Ranking, --------- Cutts 189 

Blighted Love — De Camoens, --------- Lumley 197 

Nature — Caroline S. Rogers, _________ Irene Jerome 201 

A Rose Song— i?. H. Stoddard, -------- Irene Jerome 205 

Love and Friendship, _________ Irene Jero.me 209 

Hymn to the Flowers — Horace Smith, ______ Irene Jerome 213 

Shipwreck — JVilliam Falconer, --------- McIntyre 217 

After the Season — A. E. T. Watson, ______ Kate Greenaway 221 

The Useful Plow — Anonymous, _________ McIntyre 237 

A Vesper Hymn — W. H. Lyte, -------- Irene Jerome 245 

QotiSifMC^— Anonymous, ---------- Wilson 263 

The Mourner — George Crabbe, _________ Dalziel 2T1 

The Flower o' Dumblane — R. Tannahill, _______ Allen 293 

The Wishing Well — C. L. Young, ________ Buckman 315 

An Evening in Spring — Lord Byron, ________ McIntyre 321 

Costume — Ben Jonson, __________ Dalziel 325 

Caught— /K. Shakspeare, ---------- Pearson 332 

"Down to the Vale this Water Steers" — //'. Wordsworth, _____ Boot 347 

"Love thy Mother, Little One" — Thomas Hood, ______ Taylor 363 

At the Window — Richard Reale, - - _____ Irene Jerome 381 

Grandsire's Dream — Anonymous, _________ Claxton 385 

" Sweet, be not Proud " — Robert Herrick, ________ Allen 399 

"Come to these Scenes of Peace" — W. L. Bowles, ______ Boot 421 

"Once in the Cool of Early Morn" — Anonymous, ______ Boot 427 

Mutability—/". B. Shelley, __________ Boot 439 

The Rose — Edmund Waller, ---------- Cutts 453 

"She Takes a Side Glance and Looks Down"—//. W. Longfellow, _ _ . Allen 467 

Mother shall Thread Them a Daisy Chain— •_/«■«« Ingelow, _____ Boot 491 

The Brave Old Oak — H. F. Charley, ________ Boot 495 

Long Time Ago — George P. Morris, - - - - - - - - Dalziel 517 

Evening Brings Us Home, ________ Irene Jerome 545 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



.A 



ADAM&, CHARLES F. 

■■■ "P ot Baby o£F Mine 331 

"Little Dan" 458 

ADDISON, JOSEPH. 

Soliloquy on Immortality 377 

ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 

The Burial of Moses. 63 

Gideon's Fleece 453 

ALDRICH, JAMES. 

A Death Bed 536 

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. 

The Faded Violet 451 

ALTENBURG, MICHAEL. 

The battle-song of Gustavtis Adolphus. . . 505 
ANDERSON, J. 

Cuddle Doon 413 

ARNOLD, EDWIN. 

The Ans-el of the Scales 375 

The (Jolden Garden 373 

ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 

Desire 346 

Excuse 41 

Saint Brandan 73 

ASKEWE. ANNE. 

The Fiffht of Faith 341 

ATYOUNB, DR. EDMOUNSTONE. 

The Buried Flower 379 

BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. 

Lucifer's Sermon 401 

"O Earth is cheating Earth" 60 

The True Measure of Life 426 

BALLANIINE, JAMES. 

Castles in the Air 493 

"Ilka blade o' grass" 303 

BARBAULD, ANNIE LETITIA. 

" (iood morning" 539 

BARHAM, THOMAS. ("Thomas Ingoldsby") 

As I laye a Thynkynge 456 

'Tis sweet to think 413 

BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 

Auld Robin Gray 179 

BART LETT GEORGE. 

Mignonette 510 

BARTON, BERNARD. 

Not ours the Vows 529 

BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES. 

Isleof Beauty 351 

" Oh ! Where do Fairies Hide " 426 

The Mistletoe Bough 136 

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

Spring 239 

BEERS, ETHEL LYNN. 

The Picket Guard 71 

BENNETT, WILLIAM COXE. 

O gentle Summer Rain 280 

BERNARD, SAINT. 

Jesus 497 

BENSEL. JAMES BARRY. 

" Diem Perdide" 529 

BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. 

Auld Robin Forbes 464 

BLANCH ARD, LAM AN. 

The Mother's Hope 123 

BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT. 

Moonlight in Summer 151 

BONAR, HORATIUS. 

How Long 148 

BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE. 

Come to these Scenes of Peace 419 

The Greenwood 512 

BOWRING, SIR JOHN. 

God is Love 542 



In the Cross of Christ I Glory 376 

BRADLEY, MARY E. 

Heart's Ease 5t2 

BRAINERD, J. G. C. 

Epiphalamium 371 

Falls of Niagara 163 

The Deep 378 

BRETON, NICHOLAS. 

Phillida and Corridon 533 

BRIDGES, MATTHEW. 

" Crown Him with many Crowns" 65 

BRONTE, CHARLOTTE. 

" Life will be gone e're I have lived" 287 

BROOKS, (JHARLES T. 

Alpine Heights 165 

BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 

The Lawyer's Invocation to Spring 30 

BROWNING, ROBERT. 

Evelyn Hope 390 

Good News from Ghent 75 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin 183 

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 

Catarina to Camoens 379 

Exiled but not Lost 281 

Futurity 161 

Mother and Poet 58 

Michael Angelo at Via Larga 279 

Tears 544 

The Child and the Watcher 308 

Cry of the Children 383 

The cry of the Human 349 

The Sleep 345 

Through Casa Guldi Windows 380 

Work 388 

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 

Robert of Lincoln 63 

Thanatopsis 265 

The Groves were God's First Temples — 461 
To a Waterfowl 71 

BUCHANAN, ROBERT. 

Nell 417 

Phil Blood's Leap 227 

The Wake of Tim O'Hara 459 

BURBRIDGE, THOMAS. 

" If I Desire with Pleasant Sonffs" 391 

BURNS, ROBERT. 

Auld Lang Syne 336 

Duncan Gray cam' here to Woo 420 

Holy Willie's Prayer 159 

Lament of Glencairn 436 

Mary Morrison 308 

My Heart's in the Highlands 319 

Of a' the Airts 458 

Tam O'Shanter . . 193 

The Banks O' Doon 512 

The Cotters' Saturday Night 172 

To Mary in Heaven 438 

BYRON, LORD. 

An Evening in Spring 320 

'Tis time this Heart should be Unmoved. . 233 

The Coliseum 450 

The Isles of Greece — 415 

The Night Before the Battle of Waterloo. 478- 

The Ocean 232 

She Walks in Beauty, like the Night 534 

"When Coldness Wraps this Suffering 
Clay" 64 

GARY, ALICE. 

The Fire by the Sea 434 

GARY, PHCEBE. 

Suppose 469 



10 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



)\ 



CAMPBELL, THOMAS. 

Hohenlinden 465 

The Exile of Erin 426 

The last Man 160 

To the Evening- Star 244 

CARLETON, WILL. S. 

Betsy and I are Out 2)9 

How Betsy and 1 made it up 506 

Out of the Old House, Nancy ... 60 

Over the Hill to the Poor-house 472 

The Lig-htning- roa Dispenser 276 

The New Church Organ 256 

CARLVLE, THOMAS. 

Cui Bono . 515 

CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 

A Ballad 170 

CHORLEY, HENRY F. 

The Brave Old Oak 494 

CLAPH, EVA KATHARINE. 

Goldenrod 447 

CLAKK, WILLIS G. 

The Invitation 226 

CLAUDIUS, MATTHIAS. 

NightSong 27 

COAN, LEANDER S. 

Better in the Morning 503 

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 

Hymn before Sunrise in Chamouni 195 

,, The Devil's Thoughts.. 191 

•^ Youth and Age 27 

COLLIER, ROBERT. 

Uniler the Snow 29 

COOKE, PHILIP P. 

Florence V ane 283 

COOLIDGE, SUSAN. 

When 249 

COWLEY', ABRAHAM. 

OnMyself 396 

COWPER, WILLIAM. 

Boadicea 437 

Diverting History of John Gilpin 266 

My Mother's Picture 469 

CRABHE, GEORGE. 

The Mourner 269 

CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER P. 

Thought 157 

CRAIK. DINAH MULOCK. 

Philip, inv King 144 

CRAWFORD' MRS. 

We I'artcd in Silence 200 

CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM. 

Ma.ior and Minor 509 

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 

"Sh<''s (iane to Dwell in Heaven" 77 

DANA, RICHARD H. 

Intimations of Immortality 144 

DANTE, GABRIEL. 

1 he Throne of Love 530 

DANIEL, SAMUEL. 

Love 510 

Soliloquy of Richard II Zil 

DARLEY, GEORGE. 

Song of the Winds 143 

DAVIES, SIR JOHN. 

"Oh, What is ManV 374 

DAVIS, THOMAS. 

The Welcome 50 

DAY RE, SIDNEY 

A Letter to Mother Nature — 541 

DE BERENGER. 

Diony sins the Pedagogue 535 

DE CAMOENS. 

Blighted Love 196 

DE VERE, AUBREY. 

Early Friendship 156 

The "Passion Flower 543 

DERZHAVIN, GABRIEL ROMANOWITCH. 

God 338 

DICKENS, CHARLES. 

The Ivy Green 203 



DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. 

The Wilderness Transformed 175 

DORR, JULIA C. R. 

The Fallow Field 312 

DUFFERIN, LADY. 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant 45 

DUNLOP, J. 

"Dinna Ask Me." 7T 

DY'ER, SIR EDWARD. 

My Mind to me a Kingdom Is 519^ 

ELLIOT, MADGE. 

No Kiss 144 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 

Boston Hymn 507 

Eaeh and Ail 437 

Good Bye 345 

The Problem 357 

FABER, FREDERIC WILLIAM. 

The Eternal Years 540 

The Right nuist Win 156 

FALCONER, WILLIAM. 

The Shipwreck 216 

FANSHAWB, CATHERINE. 

The Letter " H" 340 

FIELDS. JAMES T. 

Courtesy 288 

Patient Mercy Jones 501 

FINCH, F. M. 

The Blue and the Gray 253 

FORD, JOHN. 

The Nightingale and the Lute 537 

FRITH, H. 

Mv Valentine 244 

GARFIELD, JAMES A. 

Memory 397 

GLYNDON, HOWARD. 

The Door Between 539 

GOETHE, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON. 

" Hasre nof. Rest not" 278 

The Minstrel 88 

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. 

Elegv (Ml the Death of a Mad Dog 313 

GOULD,' HANNAH 

The Frost 283 

GRANT, SIR ROBERT. 

The Brooklet 43 

GREENE, ROBERT. 

Content 396 

GREENWELL, DORA. 

The Sunflower 70 

HALLECK, FITZGREENE. 

Marco Bozzaris 293 

HANDFORD, REUBEN FINN. 

A Classic Love Song 367 

HARRIS, THOMAS L. 

Fear Not 158 

HARTE, P. BRET. 

Chicago 458 

Dow's Flat 460 

Jim 441 

The Heathen Chinee 388 

HAY, JOHN 

Good Luck and Bad Luck 151 

How it Happened . . 444 

JimBludso 482 

Little Breeches — 254. 

When the Boys Come Home 33ft 

HAYNES, HAl L H. 

Pre-Existence 275. 

HEBER. REGINALD. 

"If Thou wert by my side, Love" 5'dO 

HERBERT, GEORGE. 

Easter 393 

The Gifts of God 148 

Virtue »5 

HERRICK, ROBERT. 

A Sweet Disorder 334 

Gather the Rosebuds . 73 

Sweet, be not Proud 397 

To Blossoms 521 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



11 



To Perilla 

To Violets 

HEMANS, FELICIA. 

Lajitliiigof the Pilgrim Fathers 

Lights and Shades 

The Better Land 

The Stately Homes of England 

The Hour of Death 

HOOD, THOMAS. 

Diversities of Fortune 

Faithless Nelly Gray 

Gold 

I Remember, I Remember . 

Love thy Mother, Little one 

No! 

The Death Bed 

The Lady at Sea 

The Sonir of the Shirt 

ToMv Infant son 

HOGG, JAMES (" The Ettrick Shepherd. 

'Ihe Lark 

HOLLAND, DR. J. G. 

Baby Song 

David Gray 

What will it Matter 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 

Bill and Joe 

Katydid 

The Boys 

The Steamboat 

Welcome to the Nations 

HOPPIN, WILLIAM J. 

Charlie Machree 

HOSMEK, W. H. C 

The Immortality of Genius 

HOUGHTON, GEORGE. 

Charity 

My Daughter and the Daisies 

HOUGHTON, LORD ("iMoNCKTON Milnes) 

Good Night and Good Morn nig 

The Brookside 

HOWELL, WILLIAM DEANS. 

Pleasure-pain 

Thanksgiviny , 

HOWITT, WILLIAM. 

Sweet Summer Time 

HUNT, HELEN. 

My Legacy ,, 

HUNT, LEIGH. 

Abou Ben Adhem 

Jenny Kissed Me 

May 

"le Glove and the Lions 

le Nun 

INGELOW, JEAN. 

High Tide on the Lincolnshire Coast — 

Love 

"Mother shall thread them a Daisy-chain' 
JAMIESON, DR. A. E. 

A Valentine 

JONES, SIR WILLIAM. 

What Constitutes a State? 

JONSON, BEN. 

Costume 

Good Life, Long Life 

Triumph of Charis 

JUDSON, MRS. ADONIRAM. 

The Missionary's Wife's Farewell 

KEATS, JOHN. 

Fairy Song 

TheEve of Saint Agnes 

The Grasshopper and Cricket 

The Human Seasons 

The Nightingale 

To Autimin 

KEBLE, JOHN. 

Happiness 

Morning 

The Lilies of the Field 



^_ Maj 
The 



139 
5:il 

41 

429 
461 
377 
247 

143 

49 
510 
243 
362 
167 
151 
178 
261 
408 
') ' 
524 

39 
147 

78 

466 
369 
255 
91 
362 

171 

38 

279 
bl5 

151 
167 



535 

192 

176 

91 

41 

212 

161 

341 

168 

287 
489 

532 

423 

324 
540 
494 



KEMBLE, FRANCES, ANNE. 

Absence 92 

KEV, FRANCIS SCOTT. 

The Star Spam; led Banner 146 

KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 

The Day of the Loi d 352 

The Three Fishers 409 

The Sands o' Dee 462 

KNOWLES, JAMES SHERIDAN. 

Tell among the Mountains 302 

LAMB, CHARLES. 

Farewell to Tobacco f>0 

Hester 303 

The Old Familiar Faces. r>^ 291 

LANDON, LETITIA E. 

Death and the Yo'..th 362 

We might have been 402 

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 

Children 235 

Christine 128 

Memory 140 

1 he One Gray Hair 139 

LAY COCK, SAMUEL. 

Welcome, bonny brid 395 ■ 

LELAND. CHARLES G. 

The I'hree Friends 343 

LISLE, ROUGET DE 

The Marseilles Hymn 511 

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. 

Excelsior 262 

Hiawatha's Departure. 479 

Hymn to the Night 520 

-King Robert of Sicily 308 

"She gives aside glance and looks Down" 466 

The Children's Hour 447 

The Day is Done 154 

The Village Blacksmith 92 

Weariness 414 

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. 

Abraham Lincoln 441 

" Children are God's Apostles" 373 

June 373 

My Love. 212 

The Courtin' 335 

The First Snowfall 446 

The Heritage 407 

The Pious Editor's Creed 251 

To the Future 67 

, LOVER, SAMUEL. 

T^^Rory O'Moore 376 

What I'd do . 423 

Widow Machree 219 

LUTHER, MARTIN. 

" A Fortress firm" . . , 150 ■ 

LYTLE, WILLIAM H. 

Antony and Cleopatra ^16 

LYNCH, THOMAS T. 

"Gracious Spirit, DwellAVith Me" 483 

" Heart of Chi-ist " 464 

. "Jesus Took Him by the Hand" 387 

LYTTON, L'ORD BULWEK. 

As Stars Look on the Sea 536 

The Blind Flower-Girl's Song 414 

There is no Death 490 

MACAU LAY, LORD. 

Horatius ,. 429 

*'***""|s|y^y ' 187 

Naseby ••• 28 

The Armada ,475 

313 MACDONALD, GEORGE, IXB. 

324 O, Lassie Ayont the Hill 163 

235 Hope ■ • • • 281 

539 The Earl o' Quarterdeck 353 

.M5 MACKAY, CHARLES, LL. D. 
320 Cleon and 1. 

Eternal Justice doa 

278 Small Reginnmsrs '.'.■..•...., '. 158 

274 What Might be Done ;.,:.A63 

248 



537 



12 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



MACON, J. A. 

Nigger Mifihty Happy 

3IAH0NEY, FKANCES, ("FATHER PrOUT. 

The Hells of Shannon 

MARVEL, ANDREW. 

T Drop of Dew 

The Death of Cromwell 

MCLELLAN, ISAAC. 

New Eng-land's Dead 

MCM ASTER, HUMPHREY GUY. 

The Old Continentals 

MAYNE, JOHN. 

Helen of Kirkconnel 

MESSINGER, ROBERT H. 

Give Me the Old 

MILMAN, HENRY HART. 

Son of Mary, hear., 

MILTON, JOHN. 

L'Alleg-ro 

Let there be Light 

Morning- in Paradise 

Satan in Council 

Sonnet to Cromwell 

Soimet on his Blindness. . 

Sonnet on his Twenty-third Birthday — 

To be no more 

MILLER, JOAQUIN. 

The People's Song of Peace 

MILLER, WILLIAM. 

Wee Willie Winkie 

MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 

Night 

To a Daisy 

MOORE, THOMAS. 

Canadian Boat Song 

Evening Bells 

God the Light and Life of all 

Love's Young Dream 

The Coquette 

The Dismal Swamp 

The Harp that Once through Tara's Halls 

The Last Rose of Summer 

" The World Is all a Fleeting Show" 

MORRIS, WILLIAM. 

August 

I Know a Little Garden Close . 

The Singer of an Empty Day 

MORRIS, GEORGE P. 

Long Time Ago 

Woodman, Spare that Tree 

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 

They Come, the Merry Summer Months. . 
MUNBY, ARTHUR J. 

Mary Ann 

NAIRN, BARONESS CAROLINE. 

The Land o' the Leal 

NEWMAN, CARDINAL. 

Lead Kindly Light 

NORTON, LADY ELIZABETH CAROLINE. 

■Bingen on the Rhine 

Fleurette 

Love not 

Recollections 

The Fallen Leaves 

The Mother's Heart 

■OSGOOD, KATE P. 

Driving Home the Cows 

PARK, BENJAMIN. 

" I am not Old" 

PIERPONT, JOHN. 

Warren's Address 

POE, EDGAR A. 

Helen 

For Annie 

-The Bells 

,„___The Raven 

TOLLOK, ROBERT. 

Wisdom ■. . 

POPE, ALEXANDER. 

The Dying Christian to his Soul 



513 

) 



537 
41J 



37 

456 



445 



300 
493 
425 

74 
498 
487 



449 

35 

514 

33 

36 

177 

140 

65 
155 



The Messiah 410 

The Temple of Fame 455 

POWERS, NELSON HORATIO. 

The New Year 307 

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. 

Kuimus 457 

Memory 289 

PRIEST, NANCY W. 

Over the River 405 

PRENTICE, GEORGE D. 

La Belle Americaine 520 

PRINCE, JOHN C. 

Who are Free? 394 

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. 

A Woman's Question 118 

A Doubting Heart 318 

Per Pacem ad Lucem 410 

The Lost Chord 389 

The storv of a Faithful Soul 336 

PROCTER, BRYAN W. (" Barry Cornwall.") 

Life 3W 

Peace, What can Tears Avail 407 

Softly Woo Away her Breath 239 

The Hunter's Song 319 

The Mother's Last Song 261 

The Sea 498 

The White Squall 165 

QUARLES, FRANCIS. 

lU-evity of Life 509 

Sonnets 358 

The Life of Man 70 

RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 

The Pilgrimage 354 

RANKING, MONTGOMERIE B. 

Red and White 188 

The Ivv Maiden 80 

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 

.. Sheridan's Ride 365 

READE, COMPTON. 

Amid the Roses 203 

RICHARDS, PROF. W. C. 

Spring Steps 296 

ROBINSON, WADE. 

Hymn to Christ 153 

I>ife's Crown 420 

Music 311 

ROBERTSON, T. H. 

An Idle Poet 509 

KOSSETTI, CHRISTINE. 

An Easter Carol 375 

Up-hill 3'I1 

Weary 311 

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. 

The Blessed Damozel 443 

ROSLYN, GUY. 

Chastelard to Mary Stuart 180 

Playing with Love ■• 46 

SAINT GRECiORY THE GREAT. 

Darkness is thinning. . 37 

SAXE, JOHN G. 

Early Rising 497 

SCOTT, CLEMENT W. 

Sappho and Phaon 96 

SCOTT. SIR WALTER. 

— " De ath of Marmion 484 

Hellvellyn 225 

Lochinvar 211 

Pibrock of Donuil Dhu 528 

Proud Massie is in the Wood 314 

SHAKSPEARE, WILLIAM. 

Caught... 332 

Clarence's Dream 404 

Dawn 282 

Fall of Wolsey 462 

Perfection 281 

Reputation 373 

Romeo and Juliet 533 

Seven Ages of Man 408 

Sleep 299 

Sonnets ^*^ 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



13 



Soliloquy on Death 398 

Wolsov's speech to Cromwell 415 

SHAKSPEAKE AND FLETCHER. 

Take, O Take those Lips away 236 

SHELLEV, PERCY BYSSHE. 

Autumn, a Dirge 323 

Love's Philosophy 212 

Mutability 439 

Son- S<5 

The Cloud 500 

To lanthe Sleeping 477 

SHENSl'ONE, WILLIAM. 

The Schoolmistress 149 

SMITH. HORACE. 

Address to a Mummv 273 

Hvmn to the Flowers 499 

SMITH, SY'DNEY, THE REV. 

A Receipt for Salad 235 

SOUTH EY, ROBERT. 

The Cataract of Lodore 474 

The Hollv Tree Ill 

SPENSER, EDMUND. 

Treasures at Home 533 

Wake now mv Love, awake 531 

STANLEY, DEAN. 

Do this in remembrance of me 442 

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE. 

Touiours Amour 145 

STEPHEN, SAINT, OF SABAS. 

•'Art thou Weary?" 396 

STODDARD, R. H. 

A Dirge 146 

Country Life 359 

The Two Anchors 290 

There are Gains for all our Losses 289 

SWAIN, CHARLES. 

Love 127 

Smile and never Heed me 290 

SWINBURNE, CHARLES ALGERNON. 

A Match 100 

A Child of Seven 150 

All Interlude 471 

Kissing Her Hair 290 

Love 393 

Love at Sea 28« 

The Oblation 384 

The Disappointed Lover 463 

When the hounds of Spring 318 

SWING, PROF. DAVID. 

InMemoriam: President Garfield 286 

TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 

The Braes O'Balquhither 519 

The Flower O'Dumblaue 291 

TAYLOR, BAY'ARD. 

" Shalll wed thee?" 287 

Song of 1876 301 

The Arab to the Palm 370 

The Phantom 87 

To my Daughter 286 

TAYLOR, JEREMY. 

Of 1 leaven 501 

TAULER, JOHN. 

There comes a GaUey sailing 538 

TELLER, CORA. 

The Countess of Lunn 234 

TENNYSON, ALFRED . 

" I Charge of the Light Brigade 42 

Come into the Garden, Maud 215 

De Profundis 440 

Dora 355 

Enid's Song 514 

L<-— G odiva 368 

^""■'"Locksley Hall 128 

Lu 1 1 aby 235 

King out the Old, Ring in the New 155 

Song of the Brook 520 

St. Agnes Eve 538 

The I)avs that are No More 393 

The First Quarrel 223 



The Miller's Daughter 379 

The May Queen 239 

THACKERAY', W. M. 

r. Moloney's Account of the Ball 83 

The Age of Reason 143 

^he Battle of Limerick 79 

The End of the Play 135 

THOMSON, JAMES. 

An Autumn Idyl 103 

The Watering Place 32 

TRAQUAIR, M. E. 

The Old Dame's Prayer 525 

TRENCH. ARCHBISHOP. 

Some Murmur 498 

The Kingdom of God 33 

The Nightingale 375 

XfMxesatthe Hellespont 50t 

TROWBRIDGE, J. T. 

The Farm-yard Song 408 

The Vagabonds 250 

UHLAND, LUDWIG. 

The Passage 544 

VAUGHAN, HENRY^ 

Peace 296 

Rules and Lessons 33 

VERY, JONES. 

The World 298 

WALLER, EDMUND. 

The Rose 453 

WARING, A. L. 

" My Times are in Thy Hand" 511 

WATSON, ALFRED E. T. 

After the Season '220 

WAUGH, EDWIN. 

The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine 419 

What Ails thee, my son Robin 3.54 

Willy's Grave 487 

WESTWOOD, THOMAS. 

Little Bell 31 

WHEELER, ELLA. 

Half way 536 

Take time for Love 528 

The Lost Garden 78 

WHITE, HENRY KIRKE. 

The Star of Bethlehem 543 

WHITTIRR, J. (>. 

- Barbara Freitchie 317 

Benedicite 387 

Centennial Hymn 298 

Laus Deo 344 

Maud Miiller 199 

WHITMAN, WALTER. 

The Mocking Bird 403 

What is the Grass? 343 

WILDE, OSCAR. 

Her Voice 388 

Impressions 64 

Requiescat 343 

To Milton 256 

WILSON, ALEXANDER. 

A Village Scold 448 

WILLARD, EMMA. 

Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep 523 

WILLIS, NATHANIEL P. 

Saturday Night 57 

WINTER, WILLIAM. 

After All, 1862 253 

The Heart's Anchor il 

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 

" Down to the Vale" 346 

Fidelity jO? 

Lucv *'* 

The'Kitten and the Falling Leaves 204 

The World is too much with us 483 

WOTTON, SIR HENRY. _^ 

A Happy Life 295 

Maud, Queen of Bohemia 447 

YOUNG. CHARLES LAURENCE. 

The Wishing Well 314 



14 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



YOUNG, Dr. EDWARD. 

Procrastination 359 

Author of " SONGS OF KILLARNBY." 

Once and For Aye 54 

"A. L. B." 

The Painter's Walk 113 

"E.J. M." 

At a Modern Shrine 107 

"ELMO." 

Brig hove to for a Pilot VO 

"Laborare est Orare" 360 

Leaves from Fatherland 91 

Nine times One 541 

Silent Sorrow 40 

"ELIOT, GEORGE." 

" o May I Join the Choir Invisible " .57 

The Two Lovers 874 

"RITA" 

Mv Harvest Eve 117 

ANONYMOUS. 

Affinity 53S 

" "nAnnie Laurie 20'5 

A Modest Creed 378 

A Rhyme of one 534 

An April Violet 461 

Be Patient, oh be Patient 303 

^^■-Before Sedan 343 

Blossoms beneath the Sod ■. 319 

By the Lilies 113 

Call to the Flowers 544 

Civil War 416 

Constancy 263 

—Comin' thro' the Rye 313 

Did yon ever start out of your Sleep? 424 

Doris, the Shepherd Maiden 435 

Echo 157 



Fairer than Thee. . . # lOO 

Fifty Years Ago. 383 

Half-way in Love 533 

Henry Ashland, one of my Lovers 360 

Humility 513 

I wonder ! 526 

" It singeth low in every Heart" 339 

Life is Beautiful 312 

Mary Stood the Cross beside 311 

Obscure Martyrs 398 

Old Folks 2.54 

Once in the cool of Early Morn 425 

Release 289 

Rise and Labor 515 

Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale .-. . ..-Trr.T. 96 

Shaping the Future 51* 

Tired Mothers 165 

That Night .543 

The Boy's Complaint 420 

The Butterflv's Funeral 434 

The Cosmic Egg 383 

The Dowie Dens of Yarrow 152 

The Farm and the Convent 370 

The Future Meeting 369 

" The Savior once lay Sleeping" 303 

The Tapestry Wearers 288 

The Telltale 479 

The New Jerusalem 304 

The Useful Plow 236 

The World is very Evil 145 

The World is not HuDpy 3.51 

There is a Green Hill Far Away 434 

Three Little Nest Birds 366 

Unfinished Still 343 

Yes 88 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 








POEMS 


OF NATURE. 








.Shelley, p. B... 
.Marvel, A 


323 
537 




.Bums, R 

Shelley, P. B..,. 


512 
500 


A Drop of Dew 


The Cloud 


An Autumn Idyl 

An Evening' in Spring 


..Thomson, J ... 
. Byron, Lord 


103 
320 






283 
299 


The Fallen Leaves 


..Norton, Lady... 


Helivellyn 


.Scott, SirW.... 


225 


The Greenwood 


..Bowles, W. L,.. 


513 


Hvmn before Sunrise in Cha- 




The Lawyer's Invocation to 




mouni 


.Coleridge, S. T. 


195 


Spring 


.Brownell, H. H. 


30 


June 


.Lowell, J. R.... 


373 


The Mocking Bird 


.Whitman, W.... 


403 


My Harvest Eve 


..Rita 


117 


The JNightingale 


.Trench, Arch... 


375 


Night Song 


..Claudius, M 


27 


The Nightingale 


.Keats, John 


515 


O gentle Summer Rain 


.Cox, W. B 


280 


The Ocean 


.Byron, Lord 


233 


On the Grasshopper and 




The Telltale 


..Anonymous 


479 


Cricket 


.Koats, J 


235 


The Watering Place 


..Thomson, Jas.. 


33 


Sleep 


..Shakespeare W 299 


They come, the Merry Sum- 




Spring Beaumont and Fletcher 239 


mer Months 


.Motherwell, W. 


84 


Spring Steps 

The Arab and the Palm 


.Richards, W. C 
.Ta.vlor, B 


296 
370 




..Keats, John — 
.Campbell, Thos. 


330 
344 


To the Evening Star 


The Brave Old Oak 


.Chorley. H. F.. 
.Grant, Sir E.. 


494 
42 


What is the Grass? 


..Whitman, W..., 


343 


The Brooklet 




SONGS OF 


THE FLOWERS. 






Amid the Roses 


..Reade, C 


203 


The Blind Flower Girl's Song.Lytton, Bulwer. 


4U 


An April Violet 


..Anonymous... 


461 


The Faded Violet 


.Aldrich, T. B... 


451 


Blossoms beneath the Sod.. 


..Anonymous... 


349 


The Holly Tree 


.Southey, R 


in 


)!v the Lilies 


..Anonymous... 


113 


The Ivy Green 


..Dickens, C 


203 


(all to the Flowers 


.Anonymous... 


544 


The Last Rose of Summer. 


. . Moore, T 


323 


Goldenrod 


. .Clapp, E. C... 


447 


The Lilies of the Field 


..Keble, J 


248 


Heart's Ease 


..Bradley, M. E. 


543 


The Passion Flower 


.. I'e Vere, A 


543 


Hymn to the Flowers 


..Smith, Horace. 


. 499 


The Rose 


..Waller, E 


453 


Leaves from Fatherland... 


.Elmo 


. 91 


The Sunflower 


. .Greenwell,Dora 


70 


Mignonette 


..Bartlett, G. B. 


510 


To a Daisy 


. . Montgomery, J 


488 


My Daughter and the Daisies. Houghton, G.. 


. 515 










PASTORAL POEMS. 






Barbara Frietchie 


..Whittier, J. G. 


. 317 


My Heart's in the Highlands. Bums, R 


319 


Come to these Scenes 


Df 




Over the HiU to the Poor- 




Peace 


..Bowles, W. L.. 


. 419 


house 


..Carleton. W. S 


47!} 


Dora 


..Tennyson, A.. 


. 355 


0\it of the Old House, Nancy .Carleton, W. S 


60 


1 Doris the Shepherd Maiden 


..Anonymous... 


435 


Robert o' Lincoln 


. Bryant, W. (;.. 


63 


Godiva 


..Tennyson, A. . 


. 368 


The Homes of England 


..Hemans, F 


377 


How Betsy and I made up.. 


..Carleton, W. S 


506 


The May Queen 


..Tennyson, A.. 


239 


Maud MuUer 

1 


..Whittier, J. G. 


. 196 


The Miller's Daughter 


..Tennyson, A.. 


379 



16 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
POEMS OF RURAL LIFE, 



Country Life Stoddard, R H. 359 

Down to the Vale Wordsworth, W 34(1 

Driving Home the Cows Osgood, K. P. .. 449 

Farmyard Song. Trowbridge,J.T 406 

Good Bye Emerson. R. W. 34.5 

Moonlight in Summer Bloomtield, J. . . 151 

Once in the Cool of Early 

Morn Anonymous 42"> 

Patient Mercy Jones Fields, J. T... 501 



Proud Masie is in the Wood . . Scott, Sir W — 31* 
Robin Hood and Allen-a.Dale. Anonymous .... 9ti 

Small Beginnings Mackay, Chas.. 158 

The Farm auc" the Convent. . .Anonymous — 370 
The Groves were God's First 

Temples Bryant, W. C. . . 461 

The Hunter's Song Proctor, W. B . . 31'.t 

The Schoolmistress Shenstone, W.. 14* 



POEMS OF FANCY, 



Address to a Mummy Smith, Horace. . 373 

An Elegv on a Mad Dog Goldsmith, O. . . 313 

At a Modern Shrine B. J. M 107 

Echo! : Anonymous 157 

Excelsior Longfellow 3fi3 

FairvSong Keats, J 313 

Oh ! where do Fairies Hide ?. Bayly, T. H 426 

Pleasure-Pain Howells, W. D.. 68 

Song Shelley, P. B... 95 



The Bells Poe, E. A 17T 

The Bells of Shandon Mahoney, F ... 486 

The Butterfly's Funeral Anonymous — 4 '4 

The Coquette Moore, T 156 

The Devil's Thoughts Coleridge, S. T.. 191 

The Last Man Campbell, T.... 160 

The Phantom Taylor, B 87 

The Raven Poe, E. A 140 

The Steamboat Holmes, O. W . . 91 



DESCRIPTIVE POEMS. 



August Morris, W 384 

A Canadian Boat Song Moore. T 87 

Clarence's Dream Shakspearo, W. 404 

Hvmn to the Night Longfellow — 530 

L' Allegro Milton, J 300 

" Let there be Light" Milton, J 493 

Morning Hymn in Paradise. Milton, J 425 

Satan in Council Milton, J 74 

Song of the Brook Tennyson, A . . . 530 

Song of the Winds Darley, Geo — 143 

Sweet Rummer Time Howitt, W 192 



The Blessed Damozel Rossetti , D. G . . 443 

The Cataract of Lodore Southey, R 474 

The Deep Brainerd, J. G.C 378 

The Falls of Niagara Brainerd, J. G.C 163 

The Glove and the Lions Hunt, Leigh — 161 

The Golden Garden Arnold, E 373 

The Sea Proctor, B W.. 498 

The Shipwreck Falconer, W. .. 216 

The Wishing Well Young, C. L.... 314 

The White Squall Proctor, B. W. . 165 

When the hounds of Spring.. Swinburne, C. A 318 



HUMOROUS POEMS. 



After the Season Watson, A. E. T 320 

A Receipt for Salad Smith, Sydney. 335 

A Village Scold Wilson, Alex... 448 

Dionysius the Pedagogue Berengcr, De. . . 535 

Diversities of Fortune Hood, T 143 

Dow's Flat Harte, Bret... 460 

Earlv Rising Saxe, John G.. . 497 

Faithless Nelly Gray Hood, T 49 

Farewell to Tobacco Lamb, C 50 

Good Luck and Bad Luck... Hay, J 151 

Holy Willie's Prayer Burns, R 1.59 

Jim" Harte, B 441 

Jim Bludso Hay, J 483 

Katvdid Holmes, O. W . . 369 

Little Breeches Hay, J 254 

Mr. Maloney's Account of the 

Ball Thackeray 83 

" Nigger Mighty Happy" Macon, J. A — 513 



No! Hood. T 167 

Rory O'Moore Lover, S 376 

The Age of Wisdom Thackeray.. 143 

The Battle of Limerick Thackeray 79 

The Boy's Complaint Anonymous. . . 420 

The Cosmic Egg Anonymous 283 

The dule's i' this Bonnet o' 

Mine Waugh. E 419 

The Heathen Chinee Harte, B 388 

The Letter "H" Fanshawe, C... . 340 

TheLightningRodDispenser.Carleton, W. S. 376 

The New Church Organ Carleton, W. S. . 256 

The Nun Hunt. Leigh.... 341 

The Pious Editor's Creed Lowell, J. R ... 251 

The Wake <>f Tim O'Hara.. ..Buchanan, R... 459 

Widow Machree Lover, S 219 

What ails thee my Son Robin. Waugh, E 354 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



POEMS OF SENTIMENT, 



IT 



Abou Ben Adhem Hunt, Leigh.... 91 

A Doubting- Heart Procter, A. A.. 318 

An Idle Poet Robertson, T. H 5U9 

A Modest Creed Anonymous.... 278 

Be Patient, oh be Patient!.. .Anonymous 3n3 

Brevity of Life... Quarles, F -509 

Charity Houghton, Geo. 379 

Ceon and 1 Mackay, C 66 

Content Greene, Robt... 396 

Costume — Jonson, B 324 

Courtesy Fields, J. T 288 

Cui Bono Carlyle, T 515 

" Diem Perdidi" Bensel, J. B 5% 

Each and All Emerson, K. W 437 

Enid's Song Tennyson, A. . 514 

Eternal Justice Mackay, C 3»9 

Excuse Arnold M 41 

Exiled but not Lost Browning, B. B 281 

Fairer than Thee Anonymous 100 

Fear not Harris, T. L.... 158 

Fuimus Praed, W. M... 4.57 

Good Life, Long Life Jonson, B 540 

Good Morning. . - Barbauld, A. L. 53J 

Gold Hood, T 510 

Half-way Wheeler, Ella. . 536 

Happiness Keble, J 278 

Haste not. Rest not! Goethe, J. W... 278 

Hope Macdonald, Geo 281 

Innnortality of Genius Hosmer, W. H.C 38 

Impressions Wilde, Oscar. .. 64 

I am not Old Park, B 35 

" I know a Little Garden 

Close" Morris, W 523 

I Wonder! Anonymous 536 

"Laborare est Orare " Elmo 360 

Lament of the Irish Emi- 
grant Dufferin, Lady. 45 

Life Procter, W. B. . 307 

I ife is Beautiful Anonymous... 312 

Life will be gone, ere I have 

Lived Bronte, C 287 

Lights and Shades ...Hemans.Felicia 429 

Locksley Hall Tennyson, A... 128 

Major and Minor Curtis, G. W ,509 

Memory Garfield, J A.... 397 

Memory Laudor, W. S . . . 140 



Memory Praed. W. M ... . 289 

Michael Angeloln Via Larga. Browning, E. B 279 

Mutability Shelley, P. B... 439 

Music Robinson,Wade 311 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is. Dyer, Sir Ed... 5l9 

Obscure Martyrs Anonymous. . 398 

On Myself Cowlej', A 396 

Perfection Shakspeare, W . 281 

Pre-Existence Haynes, P. H... 275 

Ring out Wild Bells Tennyson. A.... 155 

Rise and Labor Anonymous 515 

Release Anonymous 289 

Reputation Shakspeare, W. 373 

Seven Ages of Man shakspeare, W. 4U8- 

Sweet be not Proud Herrick, R 397 

Take, oh take Those Lips 

Away Shakspeare and Fletcher. 236 

Tell Among the Mountains.. Sheridan, J. S.. 302 

The Angel of the Scales Arnold, Edwin. 375 

The Day is Done Longfellow 154 

The Days that are no More... Tennyson, A.. . 393 

The Heritage Lowell, J. K. . . 407 

The Human Seasons Keats, J 539 

The Lite of Man Quarles, F 70 

The Lost Chord Procter, A. A . . 389 

The Lost Garden Wheeler, Ella. . 78 

Tde Lady at Sea Hood, T 178 

The Minstrel Goethe, J. W... 88 

The New Year Powers. H. N... 3(i7 

The Nightingale and the Lute.Ford. J 527 

I he One Gray Hair Landor, W. S... 139 

The Problem Emerson, R. W. 357 

The Singer of an Empty Day.Morris, W 444 

There are Gains for all our 

Losses Stoddard, R. H. 289 

Those Evening Bells Moore, T 178 

Thought .Cranch, C. P... 157 

Through Casa Guide Win- 
dows Browning. E. B. 280 

To the Future Lowell, J. R . . . 67 

To a Waterfowl Bryant, W. C... 71 

Wisdom Poilok, R 65 

What might be Done Mackay, C 463 

Who are the Free Prince, J. C 394 

Youth and Age Coleridge, S. T. 27' 



POEMS OF SORROW AND ADVERSITY. 



Auld Robin Gray Barnard. Lady A. 179 

As I laye a Thynkynge Barham, T 456 

A Dirge Stoddard, R. H. 146 

Before Sedan Anonymous 343 

Betsy and I are Out Carleton, W. S. 359 

Civil War .Anonymous 416 

Christine Landor W. S... 128 

Dead Aldrich, T. B... 340 

De I'rofundis Tennyson, A. .. 440 

Evelyn 1 lope Browning, R. . . 390 

Florence Vane Cooke, H. P 283 

Helen of Kirkconnel Mayne, J 166 

Highland Mary Burns, R 167 

Ilka Blade o' Grass Ballantuie, J . . . 303 

" It "^iiigeth low in every 

Heart" Anonymous 339 

Milton on his Blindness Milton, J 487 

Nell Buchanan, R... 417 

Night Montgomery, J. 378 

Silent Sorrow Elmo 40 



Softly woo away her Breath. Procter, B. W.. 239 

Soliloquy of Richard II Daniel. S 247 

Tears Browning, E. B 544 

The End of the Play Thackerav 135 

The Exile of Erin Campbell, T.... 436 

The Frost Sno^Fall Lowell, J. R.... 446 

The First Quarrel Tennyson, A... 233 

The Mistletoe Bough Bayly, T. H ]36 

The Mourner Crabbe, Geo 269 

The Sands o' Dee Kingsle.v, C 463 

The Three Fishers Kingsley, C. . . . 409 

The \'agabonds Trowbridge 250 

'Tls time this Heart should 

be Unmoved Bvron, Lord 233 

To Perilla Herrick, R 139 

We might have Been Landon, L. E .. 402 

We Parted in Silence Crawford, Mrs. 200 

Willy's Grave Waugh, E 487 

Woodman Spare that Tree.. .Morris, (i. P 130 

Unfinished Still Anonymous 342^^ 



18 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



POEMS OF RELIGION, 



.Alpine Hoisrhts Brooks, C. T... 165 

"Art Thou Wearv" Stephen, Saint. 396 

"A Fortress Firm" Luther, Martin. 150 

A Happy Life Wotton, Sir T. . 295 

An Easter Carol Rossetti, C 375 

An Invitation Clarli, W. G . . . . 226 

Benedicite Whittier, J. G. . 387 

"Crown Him with many 

Crowns" Bridges, M. ... 65 

Darkness Is Thinning. ...... .Gregory, Samt. 37 

Desire Arnold, M 346 

'Do this in Bemembrance of 

Me" Stanley, Dean.. 443 

Easter Herbert, Geo... 393 

Gideon's Fleece Alexander, C. F 453 

God Derzhaven, G .R 338 

God is Love Bowring, Sir J. 542 

•God the Light and Life of all. Moore, T 340 

Gracious Spirit Lynch, T. T . . 483 

How Long! Bonar, H 148 

Heart of Christ Lynch, T. T.... 464 

Humility Anonymous .. 512 

Hymn to Christ Robinson, W... 153 

.lesus Bernard, Saint. 497 

"Jesus took Him by the 

Hand" Lynch, T. T . . . . 387 

" Lead Kindly Light" Newman. Card. 490 

1 ucifer's Sermon Bailey, Ph. Jas. 40l 

"Mary stood the Cross Be- 
side" Anonymous ... 311 

Messiah Pope, A 410 

Morning Keble, John — 274 

My legacy Hunt, H ... 176 

"My Times are in Thy Hand". Waring, A. L... 511 
"Oh! Earth is Cheating 

Ea'th" Bailey, P. J... 60 

"Oh! What is Man?" Davies, Sir J... 374 

"O may 1 join the Choir In- 
visible" "Elliot.G eorge" 57 

Of Heaven Taylor, Jeremy 501 

Over the River Priest, N. W . . . 405 

Peace Vaughan, H.... 296 

PerPacem ad Lucem Procter, A. A.. 410 



Procrastination Young, Dr. Ed. 359 

Rocked in the .Cradle of the 

Deep Willard, E 522 

Rules and Lessons Vaughan, H 33 

Some Murmur Ti-ench, Arch . . 498 

"Son of Mary, Hear" Milman, H. H.. 366 

St. Agnes' Eve Tennyson, A... 538 

Sweet Day so Cool Herbert, Geo... 95 

Thanksgiving Howells, W. D.. 535 

The Better Land Hemans, F 461 

The Cry of the Human Browning, E. B. 349 

The Cross of Christ Bowring, Sir J . 376 

'1 he Day of the Lord Kingsley, C 352 

The Dying Christian to his 

Soul Pope, A 155 

The Eternal Years Faber, F. W. . . . 540 

The Fallow Field Dorr, J. C. R... 312 

The Fight of Faith Askewe, A 341 

The Fire by the Sea Gary, A 434 

The Future Meeting Anonymous 369 

The Gifts of God Herbert, G 148 

The Kingdom of God Trench, Archb. 32 

The New Jerusalem Anonymous 304 

The Old Dame's Prayer Traquair, M. E. 525 

The Pilgrimage Raleigh, Sir W. 354 

The Right must Win Faber, F. W. .. . 156 

" The Savior once lay Sleep- 
ing" — Anonymous 302 

The Star of Bethlehem White, H. K. . . . 543 

The Tapestry Weavers Anonymous 288 

The Wilderness Transformed. Doadridge, P.. 175 
" The World is all a Fleeting 

Show " Moore, T 538 

" The World is very Evil" . . .Anonymous 145 

" The World is not Happy" . . Anonymous 351 

The World is too much with 

us Wordsworth. W. 482 

"There comes a Galley Sail 

ing" Tauler, J 538 

There is a Green Hill Anonymous 424 

The World Jones, V 298 

Weary Rossetti. C 311 

When.... Coolidge, Susan 249 



POEMS OF DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. 



Better in the Morning Coan, L. S 503 

Burial of Moses Alexander, C. F 63 

Death and the Youth Landon, L. E... 362 

Intimations of Immortality.. Dana, R. A 144 

In Memoriam Swing, David.. . 286 

Peace, what can Tears Avail. Procter, W. B. . 4(17 

Requiescat Wilde, Oscar... 343 

Shaping the Future Anonymous... 513 

She's gane to Dwell In 

Heaven Cunningham, A. 77 

Soliloquy on Death Shakspeare. W. 398 

Soliloquy on Immortality Addison, J 377 



Thanatopsis Bryant, W. C. . . 265 

The Death-bed Hood, T 151 

The Hour of Death.... Hemans, F 247 

The Land o' the Leal Nairn, Baroness 514 

The Sleep Browning, E. B 345 

There is no Death Ly tton, B 490 

To be no More Milton, J 513 

To lanthe Sleeping Shelley, P. B... 477 

'Tis Sweet to Think Barham, T 413 

What will it Matter? Anonymous ... 98 

When Coldness Wraps this 
Suffering Clay Byron, Lord 64 



POEMS OF LOVE 



Affinity Anonymous 526 

Annie Laurie Anonymous 203 

A Classic Love Song Handford, R. F 367 

A Match Swinburne, C. A 100 



A Woman's Question Procter, A. A. . 118 

A Valentine Jamieson, Dr.. 532 

An Interlude Swinburne, C. A 471 

As Stars Look on the Sea Lytton, B 536 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 



19 



Bligdted Love Camoens, De... 196 

Caug-ht Skakspeare, W. 332 

Charley Machree Hoppin, Wm. J. 171 

ChastclarrI to Mary Stuart.. . Koslyn, G 180 

Come Into the Garden, Maud. Tennyson, A... 215 

Coming- through the Rye Anonymous 313 

Duncan Gray cam here to 

Woo Rurns, R 420 

Epiphalamium Bralnerd, J.G.C 371 

Half-way in Love Anonymous 523 

Gatherthe Rosebuds llerrick, R 73 

Helen Poe, E. A 32 

Her Voice Wilde, Oscar. . 388 

How it Happened Hay, J 444 

"If I Desire with Pleasant 

Songs" Burbridgo, T. . . 391 

Jenny Kissed Me Hunt, Leigh 41 

Kissing Her Hair Swinburne, A.C 290 

Long Time Ago Morris. G. P 516 

Love Daniel, S 510 

Love Ingelow, Jean.. 287 

Love Swain, Charles. 127 

Love Swinburne, C. C 392 

La Belle Americaine Prentice, G. D. 520 

Love at Sea Swinburne, C.A 286 

"Love not, Love not" Norton, Lady... 234 

Love's Young Dream Moore, T 446 

Mary Ann Munby, A. J ... 522 

Mary Morison Burns, R 208 

JSlaud of Bohemia Wotton, Sir H . . 447 

My Love Lowell, J. R 212 

My Valentine Frith, H 244 



Not Ours the Vows Barton, B 529 

O Dinna ask me if I lo'e ye...Dunlop, J 77 

O Lassie Ayont the Hill Macdonald, Geo 162 

Of a' the Airts Burns, R 458 

Once and for Aye Anon 54 

Playing with Love Roslyn, Guy 46 

Phlllida and Coridon Breton, N 523 

Romeo and Juliet Shakspeare, W. 533 

Sappho and Phaon Scott, C. W 96 

Shall I Wed Thee Taylor, B 287 

" She gives a Side Glance and 

Looks Down" Longfellow 466 

She Walks in Beauty Byron, Lord 524 

Smile and Never Heed Me . . ..Swain, C 290 

Take time for Love Wheeler, Ella . . 528 

That Night Anonymous 543 

The Braes o' Balquhither....Tannahill, R... 519 

The Countess of Lunn Teller, C. A. . .. 234 

The Disappointed Lover... .Swinburne, C A 463 

The Door Between Glyndon, H . . . . 539 

The Flower o' Dumblane... .Tannahill, R.... 291 

The Ivy Maiden Ranking, M. B.. 80 

The might of one Fair Face . . Angelo, M 5:30 

The Oblation Swinburne, C.A 384 

The Throne of Love Dante, G 530 

The Welcome Davis, Thomas. 50 

Triumph of Chans Jonson, B 494 

To Helen Poe, E. A 32 

Two Lovers "Eliot, George" 374 

Wake, now my Love Awake. Spencer,Ed 531 

"What I'd do" Lover, S 423 

Yes Anonymous 88 



POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



Absence Kemble, A. K.. 92 

Auld Robin Forbes Blamire, S 464 

Brig Hove to for a Pilot "Elmo" 70 

Daniel Gray Holland, J. G... 147 

Fidelity Wordsworth, W 108 

Fifty Y^ears ago Anonymous 383 

" If thou wert by my Side, 

Love" Heber, R 530 

Leaves trom Fatherland Elmo 91 

My Mother's Picture Cowper, W 469 

Old Folks Anonymous... 254 

Recollections Norton, Lady . . 297 



The Cotter's Saturday Night. Burns, R 172 

The Mother's Heart Norton, Lady.. 124 

The Mother's Hope Blanehard, L... 123 

The Missionai-y's Wife's Fare- 
well Judson, Mrs. A 537 

The Painter's Walk A. L. B 112 

The two Anchors Stoddard, R. H. 290 

The Village Blacksmith Longfellow 92 

Tii'ed Mothers Anonymous 165 

To my Daughter Tavlor, Bayard 286 

Treasures at Home Spenser, Ed 532 



POEMS OF FRIENDSHIP. 



Auld Lang Syne Burns, Robert. 236 

Bill and Joe Holmes, O. W.. 466 

Friendship Emerson, K. W. 512 

Early Friendship Vere, Aubrey... 156 

Fleurette Norton, Lady . . 124 

For Annie Poe, E. A 36 

Hester Lamb, Charles. . 303 

Lament forGlencairn Burns, R 436 



The Boys Holmes, O. W. . 255 

The Heart's Anchor Winter, W 71 

The Old Familiar Faces Lamb, Chas 291 

The Passage Uhland,Ludwig 544 

The Three Friends .. Leland, C. G... 342 

Toujours Amom- Stedman, E. C 145 

When the Boys come Home.. Hay, J 336 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 



A Child of Seven Swinburne, C.A 150 

A Letter to Mother Nature. . .Dayre, S 541 

Baby Song Holland, J.G.... 39 

Castles in the Air Ballantine, J... 493 



Children Landor, W. S.. 235 

Children are God's Apostles.. Lowell, J. R 373 

Cuddle Doon Anderson, J 412 

Dot Baby off Mine! Adams, C. F.... 231 



20 



INDEX OF SUBJECTS 



Good Night and Good Moru- 

iug Koughton,Lord 151 

Harry Ashland Anonymous — 3H0 

"I Remember, I Remember". Hood, T 2W 

John Gilpin Cowper, W 26H 

Little Bell Westwood, T... 31 

"Little Dan" Adams, C. F. . . . 458 

" Love thy Mother Little one. Hood, T 302 

Lucy Wordsworth, W 414 

Lullaby Tennyson, A... 235 

" Mother shall thread them a 

Daisy Chain" lngelow,-J 489 

Nine times One "Elmo" 511 

No Kiss Elliott, M 144 



Philip my King Craik, D. M 144 

Saturday Afternoon Wi His, N. P 57 

The Child and the Watcher... Browning, E. B 208 

The Children's Hour Longfellow 447 

1 he Cry of the Children Browning, E. B. 283 

The Frost Gould, H. F ... 283 

The Kitten and the Falling 

Leaves Wordsworth, W 204 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin.. Browning, R... 183 

Three Little Nest Birds Anonymous. . . 366 

To my Infant Son Hood, T 408 

Weariness Longfellow 414 

Wee Willy Winkle Miller, Wm 74 

Welcome Bonny Brid Laycock, S. ... 395 



SONNETS, 



A Sweet Disorder Herriek, R... . 324 

Futurity Browning, E. B 161 

Life's Crown Robinson, W. . . 420 

On his 23rd Birthday Milton, J 236 

Sonnets Shakepeare, W. H8 

Sonnets Quarles, F 358 



The true Measure of Life Bailey, P. J. . . . 426 

To Milton Wilde, Oscar. . . 2.56 

To the Lord General Crom- 
well Milton, J 498 

Work Browning, E. B 288 



POEMS OF PATRIOTISM. 



After AH!— 1862 Winter, W 2.52 

Bingenon the Rhine Norton, Lady.. 2.57 

Boston Hymn Emerson, R. W. .507 

Centennial Hymn Whittier, J. G.. 298 

.Isle of Beauty Bayly, .T H 351 

Xvry Macauley, Lord 187 

Laus ' Deo ! Whittier, J. G . . 344 

Marco Bozzaris Halleck, F.. ... 292 

Mother and poet Browning, E. B 58 

New England's Dead MeClellan, T. . . . 37 

Pibroch of iJonuil Dhu Scott, Sir W.... 528 

The Battle Songof Adolphus.Altenberg, M... 505 



The Blue and the Gray Finch.F.M 253 

The Ilarp that Once through 

Tara's Halls Moore, T 313 

The Isles of Greece Byron, Lord 415 

The Old Continentals McMaster, G. H 4.56 

The People's Song of Peace.. Miller, J 73 

1 he Picket Guard Beers, E. Lynn. 71 

The Song of 1876 Taylor, Bayard 371 

The Star Spangled Banner... Key, F. S 146 

Welcome to the Nations Holmes, O. W.. 362 

What Constitutes a State? Jones, Sir W... 433 



LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 



A Ballad of Gentleness Chaucer, G.... 

Hiawatha's Departure Longfellow. . . 

High tide on the Coast of Lin- 
colnshire Ingeiow, J 

Hohenlinden Campbell, T. . 

How they brought the good 
news to Ghent Browning, R. 

King Robert of Sicily liOnglellow. . . 

Lochinvar Scott, Sir W. . 

Phil Blood's Leap Buchanan, R. 



170 
479 

168 
465 

75 

308 

, 211 

, 227 



Red and White Ranking, B. M. 188 

Saint Brandan Arnold, M 72 



St Agnes' Eve Keats, J. 

Tam O'Shanter Burns, R 

The dowie dens of Yarrow. ^ Anonymous 

The Earl O'Quarterdeck Macdonald, G.. 

The Lake of the Dismal 

swamp Moore, T , 

The Story of a Faithful Soul.Procter, A. A... 
Under the Snow Collier, R 



324 
192 
1.52 
352 

465 

336 

29 



HISTORIC POEMS. 



Abraham Lincoln Lowell, J. R — 441 

Antony and Cleopatra Tiytle, W. H — 516 

Boadicea Cowper, W 437 

Charge of the Light Brigade. Tennyson, ... 42 

Chicago, Oct. 10th, 1871 Harte, B 458 

Fall of Wolsey Shakspeare, W 462 

1 loratius at the Bridge Macaulay, Lord 429 

Landing of Pilgrim Fathers. Hemans, F 41 

Naseby Macaulay, Lord 28 



The Armada Macaulay, Lord 475 

The Coliseum Byron, Lord 450 

The Death of Cromwell Marvel, A 413 

The Death of larmion Scott, Sir W 484 

The Night before Waterloo. . Byron, Lord 478 

Sheridan's Ride Read, T. R 365 

Wolsey's speech to Cromwell. Shakspeare, W. 415 
Xerxes at the Hellespont Trench, Archb. 504 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



Abou Ron Aflhom 91 

Ah ! (lark wore the days of winter b'iii 

Again I sit within the nuitision 87 

Again the trees stand bare upnn the nKJor 46 

Arches on arches; as it w(u-e that Koine 450 

Around the adjoining brook .)3 

Art thou a type of beauty • 54:5 

Art thou weary :196 

Amazing beauteous change 175 

A baby's boot and a skein of wo(j1 34.'i 

A barking souml the shepherd hears h'S 

A bird sang sweet and strons 509 

A child once said, " What is the grass?" 34;J 

A country life is sweet 230 

A few frail sunircn^rs had touched thee 140 

A fair, little girl sat under a tree 151 

A tlower unblown, a book unread 3U7 

A fortress firm is God our Lord I'O 

A little elbow leans upim your knee 165 

A ruddy drop of manly blood 513 

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers.. 357 

A song to the oak, the brave old oak 494 

A sorrowful woman said to me 340 

A sweet disorder in the dress 334 

A traveler through a dusty road 1-58 

Attend all ye who list to hear 475 

Ah ! dark were the days of winter 535 

Ah ! my Perilla, dost thou grieve 139 

Ah ! don't be sorrowful, darling 254 

All the world's a stage 408 

All night long on hotGilboa's mountains 453 

All the bells of Heaven may ring 150 

All woridlv shapes shall melt in gloom 160 

All (juiet along the Potomac they say 71 

And auld Robin Forbes has glen tem a dance.40t 

And O beloved voices 161 

And do not fear to hope 281 

And hast thou walked about 373 

Ask nothing more of me sweet 384 

As one who leaves a prison cell 289 

As I laye a thynkynge 456 

At midnight in his guarded tent 393 

As I sit at my desk at the window 510 

At last 'tis over, doggie dear 220 

Ave Maria ! o'er land and sea 330 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead 390 

Before 1 trust my fate to thee 118 

Behold how short a span 509 

Believe as I believe, no more no less 278 

Blackened and bleeding and helpless 458 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold 49 

Between the dark and the daylight 447 

Between gray trunks the curling pathway runsl 13 

Bird of the wilderness 524 

Bright on the banners of lily and rose 363 

Buy my flowers, O buy my flowers 414 

Be patient, oh be patient 303 

Be wise to day, 'tis madness to delay 3.59 

By Nebo's lofty mountain 63 

By the flow of the inland river 253 

By the shore of Gitchee Gumee 479 

Cables entangling her 178 

Calm is now that stormy water 501 

ChiMren are what the mothers are 2.J5 

" Children are God's Apostles" 373 

Cleon hath a million acres ••'o c 

Come into the garden, Maud 215 



Come in the evening or come in the morning. 50 

Come listen to me y<ju gallants so free 96 

Come over, come over the river to me 171 

Come to these scenes of peace . . 419 

Confide ye aye in Providence 303 

Come while the blossoms of thy years are 

brighest 226 

Come, d(;ar old comrade, you and 1 466 

Comrad(!S, leave me here a little 138 

('romwi.'ll, our chief of men 498 

(Cromwell, I did not think to shed atear 415 

Crown him with many crowns 65 

Darkness is thinning- 37 

I)ay-stars! that ope your eyes at morn to 

twinkle 499 

Dead ! one of them shot, by the sea in the east 58 
Dear heart, I bless you for this parting grace.180 

Dear hiding-place, I pray you keep 88 

Deep on the convent roofs 538 

Did you ever start out of your sleep 434 

Do ye hear the children weeping 283 

Do you remember all the sunny places 397 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way 371 

Down to the vale this water steers 346 

Dow's Flat. That's its name 460 

Draw up the papers, lawyer 259 

Duncan G ray cam here to woo 420 

Earth gets its full price for what it gives us . .373 
Eternity stands always fronting God 281 

Far on the left, unseen, the while 484 

Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness . 462 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree 531 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime 87 

Father I know that all my life 511 

Fairer than thee 100 

Fear not O little flock 505 

Flowers are fresh and bushes green 196 

Four seasons fill the measure of the year .539 

From his brimstone bed at the break of day . .191 
Full of beautiful blossoms 68 

Gather the rosebuds while ye may 73 

Gin a body meet a body 313 

Give me thy scallop-shell of quiet 354 

(iive us your hand, Mr. Lawyer 506 

Go, lovely rose 453 

Go to the once loved flowers 4.57 

(iod bless the man who first invented sleep.. .497 

(iod is love: his mercy brightens 542 

God makes such nights all white and still.. . 335 

God's love and peace be upon thee, where 387 

Gold! Gold! Gold! 510 

Good bye proud world, I'm going hf)me 345 

(Jood luck is the gayest of all gay girls 1.51 

fioodname in man or woman 373 

Good people all, of every sort 313 

Gracious Spirit, dwell with me 483 

Half a league, half a league 42 

Ilainelin Town's in Brunswick 183 

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the 

boys? 255 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning stir.. 195 

He sang as he lay on a Highland mountain 54 

He erred no doubt 279 

He jests at scars who never felt a wound 533 



23 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



He without noise still traveled 41.3 

Her cap far whiter than the riven snow 1«) 

Her suffering- ended with the day 5;i6 

Hence loathed Melancholy 900 

Here in this leafy place j^j 

Heart of Christ, O cup most golden 464 

Hear the sledges with the bells 1 ' ^ 

Helen, thy beauty is to me "^ 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups 4.S9 

Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chm 14.3 

Hot July was drawing to an end 384 

Hog start a running when de overseer callmg.51j3 
How many thousands of my poorest subject8~99 

How wond'erf ul is death 4^,J 

How does the water come down at Lodore — iiJ 
How soon hath time the subtle thief ol youth. :J.3b 

How prithee shall I woo my love? 244 

How Shalt thou bear the cross 540 

How sweet and gracious even in common 

speech ~°° 

How happy is he born and taught ~-w 

How orient is thy beauty, how divine. ."5.^8 

Hues of the rich, unfolding morn 374 

I am a preacher come to tell ye truth 401 

I am dying, Egypt, dying 516 

I am not old 3a 

I bring fresh showers for thirsting flowers . . .500 
I climb'dthe dark brow of the mighty Hellvel- 

Ivn 325 

1 come from haunts of coot and hern .520 

I du believe in Freedom's cause 3,51 

I do believe divinest Angelo 279 

I do not ask O Lord, that life may be 410 

I don't go much on religion 254 

1 gave my little girl back to the daisies 515 

I have three friends, three glorious friends... 343 
I have had playmates, I have had compamons301 

I have a lover, a little lover 360 

I hear thee speak of a better land 461 

I heard the trailing garments of the night 520 

I had drunk with lips unsated 515 

I know a maiden fair to see 466 

I know that it was my own hand ^'39 

I know a little garden close 523 

Ignve my little girl back to the daisies 515 

I like a church, I like a cowl 357 

I leaned out of the window 287 

I love to look on a scene like this 57 

I love to hear thine earnest voice 369 

1 loved thee long and dearly Florence Vane. .283 

I loved him not, and yet now he is gone 128 

I pray you pardon me Elsie 444 

I reniember, I remember 34:5 

I say to thee, do thou repeat 33 

I sat with Doris, the shepherd maiden 435 

I seek her 'midst the roses : 03 

I sit within my ingle nook 383 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he 75 

I saw t>vo clouds at morning 371 

I stood on the banks of a swift flowing river..l.57 

I too have suffered, yet I know 41 

I waited for the train at Ci )ventry .368 

. I wandered by the brook side 167 

I will go back to the great, sweet mother 463 

I wish I were where Helen lies 166 

I won't deny that I love you, Ned 334 

I wonder if ever a song was sung 526 

I would have gone, God bade me stay 311 

If I desire with pleasant songs 391 

It is not growing like a tree 740 

If you became a nun, dear 341 

If life awake and wi 1 never cease 78 

If Love were what the rose is 103 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 147 

If I were told that 1 must die to-morrow ,249 

If thou wert by my side, love 530 

I'm a boy 'bout as high as a table 458 

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary 45 



I'm wearin' awa' Jean 314 

In the cross of Christ I glory 376 

In the greenest growth of the May time 471 

In the merry month of May 523 

In the silence of my chamber 379 

In their ragged regimentals 456 

In vain the cords and axes were prepared 316 

Is there when the winds are singing 133 

Is it within my ingle nook 383 

It is done 344 

It is not growing like a tree 540 

It is the miller's daughter 379 

It must bo so— Plato, thou reasouest W(!ll 377 

It singeth low in every heart 339 

It was a Christmas Eve 39 

It was a gallant sailor man 390 

r th' the thraug o' stories tellin' 448 

Jenny kissed me when we met 41 

J esus the very thought of Thee 497 

Jews were wrought to cruel madness 311 

John Gilpin was a citizen 366 

J ust a few crocus leaves 91 

Kicked out in scorn from Syracuse 535 

" Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite 144 

Kissing her hair 390 

King Francis was a hearty king 161 

Laborare est orare 360 

La.iguage provides poor symbols 38 

Lars Porsena of Clusium 439 

Late at e'en, drinking the wine 153 

Lead kindly light 490 

Leaning my bosom on a pointed thorn. . . .,. .375 

Learn to live, and live to learn 286 

Leaves have their time to fall 247 

Let there be light 493 

Let us take to our hearts the lesson 388 

Let us go lassie go 519 

Life' s fadeless crown is twisted from the leaves430 

Life is beautiful — 313 

Life! we've been long together 539 

Life will be gone ere i have lived 287 

Life went a Maying 27 

Like as the armed knight 341 

Little thinks in the held, yon red-cloaked 

clown 437 

Look at me with thy large, brown eyes 144 

Lo! we have told you 373 

Lord for the erring thought 535 

Love is a sickness full of woes 510 

Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay. . ..234 

Love thy mother little one .362 

Love ? I will tell you what it is to love 127 

Low on the utmost boundary of the sight 151 

Many a year is in its grave 544 

Maud Miiller on a summer's day 196 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 303 

May, thou month of rosy beauty 313 

May the Babylonish curse 50 

Merrily swing on brier and weed 63 

Milton ! I think thy spirit hath passed away. ..256 

Mine cracious, mine cracious 331 

Music in the house 311 

My God, it is not fretfulness 148 

My loved my honoi-ed much respected friend. 173 

My little sou, my little son 541 

My mind to me a kingdom is 519 

My soul, there is a country 396 

My lady, here I'll linger 96 

My heart's in the Highlands 319 

Near the lake where drooped the willow 516 

New England's dead ! 37 

Kext to thee, O fair gazelle 370 

Night is the time for rest 378 

No sun — no moon 167 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



33 



Not yet the flowers arc in luy path 36:i 

Not "what we woulJ. but what we nnist 359 

Not as all other women are .312 

Not our'8 the ^'ows 5;29 

Now all ye flowers make i-oom 286 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts 187 

Now the lusty spriug- is seen 239 

O beauteous God 507 

O brother man tear not 158 

O, dinna ask me gin I lo'c ye 77 

O gentle, g-entle summer rain 280 

O, tor the glory of harvest time 117 

O land of Promise 67 

O, lassie ayont the hill.'. 102 

O, it is hard to work tor God 1.5ti 

O, listen man 144 

(), little feet, that such long years 414 

O, Mary, go and call the cattle home 4C2 

O mother dear .Tei-usalem 304 

O Lydia while no other arms dare twine 367 

O Thou wha in the heavens dost ilwell 1,59 

O Thou eternal one whose presence bright.. .338 

O the days ai-e gone 446 

O wherefore came ye forth 28 

(), reader, hast thou ever stood to see Ill 

O, say can you see by the dawn's early light. .H6 

< ), the days are gone when beauty bi'i,';ht 140 

O, when 'tis summer weather 512 

Of all the thoughts of (Jod that are 345 

Of all the bonny buds that blow 542 

Of all the airts the wind can blow 4.58 

Of heaven or hell I shall no power to sing 444 

Oh, a dainty plant is the ivy green 203 

Oh! dalTodil open your balmy buds 544 

Oh, earth is cheating earth 60 

Oh, I have passed a miserable night 404 

Oh, knew he but his happiness 103 

Oh, may I join the choir invisible 57 

Oh, Mary, at thy window be 208 

Oh, never mind, they're only boys 420 

C)h. that those lips had language 469 

Oh, will ye choose to hear the news 83 

Oh, what is man, great Maker of mankind 374 

Oh, where do fairies hide their heads 426 

Oh, young I;Ochinvar iscome out of the west. . .21 1 

Old wine to drink , 445 

On Alpine heights the love of God is shed 165 

On a day, (aiack the day,) 332 

On Linden when the sun was low 4fi5 

Only on ■ judge is just 375 

On the door you will not enter 379 

Once In the cool of early morn 425 

Once, on a golden afternoon 479 

Once more upon the hills my eager feet 296 

Once Paumanok 403 

Once upon a midnight dreary 140 

One eve of beauty when the sun 262 

Our father's God fi-ora out whose hand 298 

Our life is nothing but a winter's day 70 

Out of the old house, Nancy '. 60 

Out of the clover and bhie-eyed gi-ass 449 

Out of the deep my child 440 

Over the hill to the poor house 472 

Over the hill the farm-boy goes 406 

Over the river they beckon to me 405 

Passing from Italy to Greece .527 

Peace, what can tears avail 407 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu .528 

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray. 31 

Prithee, tell me, dimple chin 145 

Proud Masie is in the wood 314 

Barely, rarely comest thou 95 

Rifleman, shoot m(! a fancy shot 416 

Hing out wild bolls, to the wild sky 1,55 

RiseheartI thy Lord is i-i sen. Sing His praise393 

Rise, sleep no more, 'tis a nobh; moon 319 

Robert O' Lincoln 62 



Robert of Sicily brother of Pope I'rbane. . . .308 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep 523 

Saint Brundan sails the Northern main 72 

Saint Agnes' eve, ah, bitter cold it was 324 

Say there! P'r'aps some on you chaps 441 

Season of mists and mellow frultfulness 320 

Seated one day at the organ 389 

See how the orient dew 537 

See how yon flaming herald treads 91 

S e the chariot at hand here of love 494 

Shades of evening close not o'er us 3,51 

Shed no tear, oh shed no tear 313 

She dwelt amongst the untrodden ways 414 

She is right weary of her days 523 

She is gane to dwell in heaven 77 

She walks In beauty like the night 524 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 236 

Sleep, the ghostly winds are blowing 261 

Sleep on, baby, on the tlooi- 208 

Slow is the painful ascent up to fame 536 

Softly wof) awa,\- her breath 239 

Some murmur when their sky is clear 498 

Spring b\n-sts to-day 375 

Stand (in a funeral mound 289 

Stand, th(^ gioinid's your own 514 

Star that bringest home the bee 244 

Still to be neat, still to be drest I324 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of e()ntent!396 

Sweet be not proud of those two eyes 397 

Sweet brooklet, ever gliding '. 43 

Sweet coquette, so blandly smiling '.'. .156 

Sweet da.y , so cool, so calm 95 

Sweet and low, sweet and low ' '235 

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies ^248 

Such was he our mart.yr-chief .4A1 

Suppose, my little lady !469 

Take, oh take those lips away 236 

Tears, idle tears, 1 know not what they mean!393 

Till the slow da.vlight pale 70 

'Tis all a great show ' " '293 

'Tis beauteous night, the stars look brightly- 
down ggrj- 

'Tis the last rose of summer \\\ '323 

'Tis said that when the nightingale !509 

'Tis sweet to think the pure Ethereal being. 413 

'Tis very sweet to sit and gaze, dear girl 520 

'Tis time this heart shcaild be unmoved. . .... .233 

The apples are ripe in the orchard ^252 

The bonny, bonny bairn '493 

Thank heaven the crisis is over at last ... . 36 

That way look, my infant, lo ; 204 

The bairnies cuddle doon atnicht ! . 413 

Thank God, bless God all ye who suffer . . !544 

The blessed damozel looked out ^443 

The breaking waves dashed high 41 

The day of the Lord is at hand .'.'.'. ... ..352 

The day is done and the darkness .154 

The dnles i' this bonnet o' mine .419 

The fettered spirits linger .....!336 

The first stock e Father of gentillness ....... .170 

The flowers that smile to-day 439 

The fountains mingle with the river ...... ....21% 

1 he frost looked out one still clear night 283 

The frosty wind was wailing wild 487 

The gloomiest day hath gleams of light 429 

The groves were God's first temples. 461 

The grass is green on Bunker Hill .'. 73 

The half seen memories of childish davs 156 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 313 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 415 

Q'he lily's withered chalice falls 64 

The man is thought a knave or fool..! !;S89 

The might of one fair face 530 

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall 136 

The mother of the muses, we are taught 140 

The moon is up in splendor 27 

The old mayor chmbed the belfry tower . ..168 

The play is done, the curtain drops . .135 



24 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



The poetry of earth is u <;» sr dead 335 

The rich man's son inht rits .auds 407 

The Savior once lay sleeping 803 

The sea, the sea, the open sea 498 

The sea was bright and the bark rode well 165 

The shades of night were falling fast 26; 

The snow had begun in the gloaming 446 

The stately homes of England 377 

The stir of morn is through the vale 370 

The sufferer had been heard to saj' 387 

The sun comes up and the sun goes down 312 

The sun has gone down o'er the lofty Ben 

Lomond 291 

The sun strikes through the windows 280 

The temple shakes, the soumling gates unfold455 
The thoughts are strange that crowd into my 

brain 163 

The throne of love is in my lady's eyes 530 

The violet loves a sunny bank 287 

The warm sun is failing 323 

The weary voyage is over 70 

The wild bee feels from bough to bough 388 

The wind it blew, and the ship it Hew 352 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills 436 

The wisest of the wise 139 

The word of the Lord by night 507 

The world is very evil 145 

The world is too much with us late and soon. .483 

The world is wise f(jr the world is old 351 

There are gains for all om- losses 289 

There are in this rude stunning tide 378 

There are pale sweet blossoms beneath the S( id349 
There came to the beach a poor exile from Erin426 

There comes a galley sailing 538 

There is a flower, a little flower 488 

There is a green hill far away 434 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 333 

There is no death, the stars go down 490 

There is no CJod the foolish saith 349 

There is no love like thy love 153 

There lived a singer in France of old 393 

There was a fair garden sloping 78 

There was a sound of revelry by night 478 

There were seven fishers with nets 434 

There's a happy time coming 336 

There's beauty in tlie deep 378 

There's some thinks Ingins pison 327 

They come, the merry summer months 84 

They have no place in storied page 398 

They made her a grave too cold and damp 465 

They sat in sorrow side by side 40 

They told me I was hei r 176 

They've got a bran new organ, Sue 256 

These are Thy glorious works 425 

This is her story as once told to me 501 

This only grant me 396 

This world is all a fleeting show 538 

Tha'rt welcome little bonnie brid 395 

Thou art O Lord the life and light 340 

Those evening bells, those evening bells 178 

Thou happy, happy elf 408 

Thou was't not born for death 515 

rhou lingering star, with lessening ray 438 

Thou who dost dwell alone 346 

I'hough when other maids stand by 290 

Through the dim chamber of my sacred soul.. 529 

Thought is deeper than all speech . 157 

Think of mo as your friend I pray 71 

Three fishers went sailing out into the west. .409 

Thus Satan talking to his nearest mate 74 

Thy home is with the humble, Lord 513 

To be, or not to be 398 

To be no more— sad cure 513 

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily 381 

To him who in the love of nature 365 

To make this condiment your poet sings 335 

To the wake of O'Hara came company 4.59 

Turn fortune turn thy wheel 514 

Tread lightly, she is near ,343 

'Twas whispered in heaven 340 



Two lovers by a moss-grown spring- 374 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 93 

Under the larch with its tassels wet 461 

Under the trees by the darkling stream 188 

Up from the meadows rich with corn 317 

Up from the south at break of day 36.i 

Up the dale and down the bourne 143 

Upon a rock yet uncreate 383 

Vital spark of heavenly flame 155 

" Wait a little" you say 223 

Wake, voice of the land's devotion 371 

Wake now my li ive awalce 531 

Wall, no! Ican't tell whar he lives 482 

We are two travelers, Roger and 1 250 

We ai-e born, we laugh, we weep 307 

We are in love's land to-day 28ft 

We have been friends together i&i 

We live in deeds not years 426 

We meant to be very kind 366 

We might have been 403 

We part on this green islet love 537 

We shape ourselves the joy or fear 513 

We stand among the fallen leaves 399 

We parted in silence, we parted by night 200 

We watched tier breathing thro' the night 151 

Wee Willie Winkle 74 

Welcome maids of honor 531 

What ails thee, my scm Robin? 354 

Whatare we set on earth for? 288 

What constitutes a state? 423 

What different dooms our birthdays bring 143 

What is hope? a smiling rainbow 515 

What is th- use of this impetuous haste 528 

What thought is folded in thy leaves? 451 

What is the little one thinking about? 39 

What might be done if men were wise 463 

What shall 1 do with all the days and hours ... 93 

What voice, what harps are those 88 

What will ye do love when I'm going? 423 

Whiit, you are come despite your boast? 314 

When chapman billies leave the street 192 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay 64 

When evening spreads her mantle wide 533 

When God at first made man 148 

When first thou camcst, gentle, shj', and fondl24 

When first thy eies unveil 33 

AVhen I consider how my light is spent 487 

When I do count the clock that tells the time. 188 

When maidens such as Hester die 303 

When our heads are bowed with woe : 66 

When marshalled on the nightly plains 543 

When shall we meet again 369 

When stars are in the quiet sky .536 

When the British warrior queen 437 

When the hounds of spring 318 

When the sheep are in the fauld 179 

When the slow field-sp der weaves 447 

When the Paschal evening falls 443 

Where are the swallows fled 318 

Whereas on certain boughs and sprays 30 

Whether the soul receives intelligence 247 

Which I wish to remark, and my language is 

plain 388 

Which this railway smash reminds me 276 

White swans, beside the lilies.. . 112 

Who are the free? 394 

Who has not dreamed a world of blessing 192 

While sauntering through the crowded street.375 

Widow Machree, its no wonder you frown 219 

Wilt thou begone? 283 

Wisdom took her harp and stood . . 66 

With a spray of shower-wet lilac in your handlOT 

With deep affection 486 

With Farmer Allan at the farm 355 

With fingers weary ami worn 261 

Wither midst falling dew 71 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 



25 



Without haste ! Without rest ! 378 

Woodman, spare that tree 136 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 167 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 512 

Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again .a03 

Ye genii of the nation 79 

Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song, 410 

Ye tradeful merchants 532 

Ye sons of freedom wake to glory 511 

Yes, there are real mourners 259 



You and I and that; night 543: 

You can't help the baby parson 503 

You came to me by ways that love has shown53fr 

\(m dear old mother nature 541 

You have come then, how very clever 523: 

Your face sweet Constance 80 

You meaner beauties of the night 447 

You must wake and call me early 3;i9 

You sleep upon your mother's breast 524 

Young Kory O'Moore courted Kathleen Bawn37t> 
You're a kind woman. Nan 417 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



OF POETEY A:N"D SOl^G. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Life went a-Majing 
With Nature, Hope and Poesy, 
When I was voung! 
When I was joung? Ah, woful when! 
Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
This breathing house not made with liands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong. 
O'er airy clifts and glittering sands, 
How lightly then it flashed along ; 
How those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, . 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
That fear no spite of wind or tide! 
Nought cared this body for wind or 

weather. 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely; Love is flowcr-Iike; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
O the joys that came down shower-like 
Of Friendship, Love and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old.'' Ah woful Ere, 
Which tells me Youth's no longer here. 

Youth! for yeai"s so many and sweet, 
'Tis known that thou and I were one; 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be that thou art gone! 
The vesper bell hath not yet tolled 
And thou wert aye a masker ball ! 
What strange disguise hast thou put on. 
To make-believe that tiiou art gone.^ 

1 see these locks in silvery slips. 



This drooping gait, this altered size; 
But spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes, 
Life is but thought; so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
Dewdrops are the gems of morning. 
But the tears of mournful eve! 
Where no hope is life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve 

When we are old; 
With oft and tedious taking leave; 
Like some poor nigh related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismissed. 
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



NIGHT SONG. 

The moon is up in splendor. 
And golden stars attend her; 

The heavens are calm and bright; 
Trees cast a deepening shadow. 
And slowly off the meadow 

A mist is rising silver-white. 

Night's curtains now are closing 
Roimd half a w^orld reposing 

In calm and holy trust. 
All seems one vast, still chamber, 
Where weary hearts remember 

No more the sorrows of the dust. 

Matthias Claudius. 



28 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



NASEBY. 

O, WHEREFORE coiiie jc forth in triumph 
from the north, 

With your hands, and your feet, and jour 
raiment all red? 

And wherefore doth your route send forth 
a joyous shout? 

And whence be the grapes of the wine- 
press that ye tread ? 

O, evil was the root, and bitter was the 

fruit, 
And crimson was the juice of the vintage 

that we trod ; 
For we trampled on the throng of the 

haughty and the strong, 
Who sate in the high places and slew the 

saints of God. 



It was about the noon of a glorious day of 
June 

That we saw their banners dance and their 
cuirasses shine, 

And the man of blood was there, with his 
long essenced hair, 

And Aslley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Ru- 
pert of the Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his bible 

and his sword, 
The General rode along us to form us for 

the fight; 
When a murmuring sound broke out, and 

swelled into a shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the 

tyrant's right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on 

the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging 

line: 
For God! for the cause! — for the Church! 

for the laws! 
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert 

of the Rhine! 



The furious German comes, with his clar- 
ions and his drums. 

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White- 
hall; 

They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp 
your pikes! Close your ranks! 

For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or 
to fall. 



They are here, — they rush on, — we are 
broken, — we are gone, — 

Our left is borne before them like stubble 
on the blast. 

O Lord, put forth Thy might! O Lord, de- 
fend the right ! 

Stand back to back, in God's name! and 
fight it to the last ! 



Stout Skippen hath a wound, — the center 

hath given ground. 
Hark! hark! what means the trampling of 

horsemen on our rear? 
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! 

thank God! 'tis he, boys! 
Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is 

here ! 



Their heads all stooping low, their points 

all in a row. 
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge 

on the dikes. 
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of 

the accurst, 
And at a shot have scattered the forest of 

his pikes. 



Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some^afenook 

to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on 

Temple Bar; 
And he — he turns! he flies! shame on those 

cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not 

look on war ! 



Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere je 

strip the slain, 
First give another stab to make jour search 

secure; 
Then shake from sleeves* and pockets their 

broad pieces and lockets, 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of 

the poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and 

jour hearts were gay and bold. 
When you kissed your lily hands to your 

lemans to-day; 
And to-morrow shall the fox from her 

chambers in the rocks 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above 

the prey. 

Where be your tongues, that late mocked 

at heaven and hell and fate? 
And the fingers that once were so busy with 

your blades? 
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches 

and your oaths! 
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your 

diamonds and your spades? 

Down ! down ! forever down, with the miter 
and the crown ! 

With the Belial of the court, and the Mam- 
mon of the Pope! 

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail 
in Durham's stalls; 

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop 
rends his cope. 

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her 

children's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge 

of England's sword; 
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder 

when they hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for 

the houses and the word ! 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 



UNDER THE SNOW. 

A STORY IN RHYME. 

It was Christmas Eve in the year fourteen, 
And, as ancient dalesmen used to tell. 
The wildest winter they ever had seen, 
With the snow lying deep on moor and fell. 

When wagoner John got out his team, 
Smiler and Whitefoot, Duke and Gray, 
With the light in his eyes of a young man's 

dream, 
As he thought of his wedding on New 

Year's Day 

To Ruth, the maid with the bonnie brown 

hair, 
And eyes of the deepest, sunniest blue, 
Modest and winsome, and wondrous fair. 
And true to her troth, for her heart was 

true. 

" Thou's surely not going!" shouted mine 

host; 
" Thou'll be lost in the drift, as sure as thou's 

born ; 
Thy lass cannot want to wed wi' a ghost, 
And that's what thou'll be on Christmas 

morn 

" It's eleven long miles from Skipton toon 
To Blueberg hooses and Washburn dale; 
Thou had better turn back and sit thee doon. 
And comfort thy heart wi' a drop o' good 
ale." 

Turn the swallows flying south, 
Turn the vines against the sun. 
Herds from rivers in the drouth. 
Men must dare or nothing's done. 

So what cares the lover for storm or drift, 
Or peril of death on the haggard way ? 
He sings to himself like a lark in the lift. 
And the joy in his heart turns December 
to May. 



30 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



But the wind from the north brings a deadly 
chill, 

Creeping into his heart, and the drifts are 
deep 

Where the thick of the storm strikes Blue- 
berg hill, 

He is weary and falls in a pleasant sleep, 



And dreams he is walking by Washburn 

side, 
Walking with Ruth on a summer's day, 
Singing that song to his bonnie bride. 
His own wife now forever and ave. 



Now read me this riddle, how Ruth should 

hear 
That song of a heart in the clutch of doom : 
It stole on her ear, distinct and clear, 
As if her lover was in the room. 



And read me this riddle, how Ruth should 

know. 
As she bounds to throw open the heavy 

door. 
That her lover is lost in the drifting snow, 
Dying or dead, on the great wild moor. 

"Help! help! Lost! lost!" 
Rings through the night as she rushes awav, 
Stumbling, blinded and tempest-tossed, 
Straight to the drift where her lover lay. 

And swift they leap after her into the night, 

Into the drifts by Blueberg hill, 

Pullan, Ward, Robinson, each witli his 

light. 
To find her there holding him white and 

still. 

" He was dead in the drift, then," 

I hear them say. 

As I listen in wonder. 

Forgetting to play, 

Fifty years since come Christmas Day. 



" Nay, nay, they were wed I" the dalesman 

cried, 
" By Parson Carmalt o' New Year's Day. 
Bonnie Ruth were me great-great-grand 

sire's bride. 
And Maister Frankland gave her away." 

" But how did she find him under the 

snow.'"' 
They cried with a laughter, touched with 

tears ; 
" Nay, lads," he said, softly, "we never can 

know — 
No! not if we live a hundred years. 

There's a sight o' things gan 

To the making o' man." 

Then I rushed to my play 

With a whoop and away, 

Fifty years syne come Christmas Day. 

Robert Collyer. 



THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO 
SPRING. 

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays 
Now divers birds are heard to sing. 

And sundry flowers their heads upraise, 
Hail to the coming on of Spring! 

The songs of those said birds arouse 
The memory of our youthful hours. 

As green as those said sprays and boughs, 
As fresh and sweet as those said flowers. 

The birds aforesaid — happy jairs — 

Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, enshrines 

In freehold nests; themselves, their neirs. 
Administrators and assigns 

O, busiest term of Cupid's Court, 

Where tender plaintiffs actions bring. 

Season of frolic and of sport, 

Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring! 

Henry Howard Brownell. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



81 



LITTLE BELL. 

Piped the blackbird on the beachwood 

spray, 
"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 

What's your name," quoth he, — 
" What's your name? O, stop and straight 

unfold. 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold." — 
" Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks, 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks, — 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here's tiie very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 
And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird, — 

Full of quips and wiles. 
Now so loud and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below. 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below- 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and 

grow. 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the 

glade. 
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade. 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of 

fear; 
While the bold blackbird piped that all 
might hear, — 
" Little Bell," piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern, — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return ; 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up away the frisky squirrel hies, — 
Golden woodlights dancing in his eyes, — 

•And adown the tree 



Great ripe nuts, kissed ripe by the July sun, 
In the little lap dropped one by one. 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to hear the fun ! 
" Happy Bell," pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade, — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, 

Come and share with me ! " 
Down came squirrel eager for his fare, 
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share, — 

Ah the merry three ! 
And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough 
again, 

'Neath the morning skies. 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seems to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day, 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray ; 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where unseen. 
In the blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear. 
" What good child is this," the angel said, 
" That with happy heart beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly.'' " 
Low and soft, O, very low and soft, 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 

" Bell, dear Bell ! " crooned he. 

" Whom God's creatures love," the angel 

fair 
Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' 
.care ; 
Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm. Love deep and 

kind. 
Shall watch around and leave good gifts 
behind, 
Little Bell, for thee!" 

Thomas Westwood. 













^'^"" 














32 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 








THE WATERING PLACE. 


And we, on divers shores now cast. 








Shall meet, our perilous voyage past. 








Around the adjoining brook that purls 


All in our Father's house at last, 








along 










The vocal grove, now falling o'er a rock. 
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool, 
Now startling to a sudden stream, and now 
Gently diifused into a limpid plain. 


And ere thou leave him, say thou this. 
Yet one word more — they only miss 
The winning of that final bliss. 






A various group the herds and flocks com- 








1 pose, 


Who will not count it true, that Love, 






Rural confusion ! On the grassy bank 


Blessing, not cursing, rules above, 








Some ruminating lie; while others stand 


And that in it we live and move. 








Half in the flood, and often bending sip 










The circling surface. In the middle di'oops 
The strong laborious ox, of honest front, 
\Vhich incomposed he shakes; and from 
his sides 


And one thing further make him know, 
That to believe these thmgs are so. 
This firm faith never to forego. 








The troublous insects lashes with his tail. 










Returning still. 


Despite of all which seems at strife 
With blessing, all with curses rife. 








James Thomson. 


That this is blessing, this is life. 










Archbishop Trench. 








THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 


TO HELEN 








I SAY to thee, do thou repeat 










To the first man thou mayest meet 


Helen, thy beauty is to me 








In lane, highway, or open street — 


Like those Nicean barks of yore 
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea. 








That he and we and all men move 


The weary way-worn wanderer bore 








Under a canopy of love, 


To his own native shore. 








As broad as the blue sky above; 


On desperate seas long wont to roam, 








That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 


Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. 






And anguish, all are shadows vain, 


Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 




} That death itself shall not remain; 

J 

« 


To the glory that was Greece, 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 






8 

That weary deserts we may tread, 








1 A drearv labvrinth may thread. 


Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche 






1 ^ - ^ ' 

j Thro' dark ways underground be led; 


How statue-like I see thee stand, 
The agate lamp within thy hand! 






Yet, if we will one Guide obey. 


Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are holy land ! 








The dreariest path, the darkest way 








Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 


Edgar A. Poe., 












. 




< 



^ 

^ 



iST 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



33 



RULES AND LESSONS. 

When first thy eies unveil, give tiiy soul 

le^ve 
To do the like, our bodies but forerun 
The spirit's duty. True hearts spread and 

heave 
Unto their God, as flow'rs do to the sun. 
Give Him Thy first thoughts tiien; soshalt 

thou keep 
Him company all day, and in llim sleep. 

Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer shou'd 
Dawn with the day. There are set, awful 

hours 
'Twixt heaven and us. The marina was 

not good 
After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowres. 
Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins 

glut, 
And heaven's gate opens when this world's 

is shut. 

Walk with thy fellow creatures ; note the 

hush 
And whispers amongst them. There's not 

a spring 
Or leafe but hath his morning hymn. Each 

bush 
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou 

not sing.? 
O leave thy cares and follies! go this way, 
And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 

Serve God before the world; let Him not 

I go. 

Until thou hast a blessing; then resigne 
The whole unto Him ; and remember who 
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine. 
Poure oyle upon the stones; weep for thy 

sin ; 
Then journey on, and have an eie to 

heav'n. 

Mornings are mysteries : the first world's 

youth, 
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud 



Shroud in their births; the crown of life 

light, truth 
Is stil'd their starre, the stone, and hidden 

food. 
Three blessings wait upon them, two of 

which 
Should move: they make us holy, happy, 

rich. 

When the world'^ up, and ev'ry swarm 

abroad. 
Keep thou thy temper; mix not with each 

clay; 
Dispatch necessities; life hath a load 
Which must be carri'd on, and safely may, 
Yet keep those cares without thee, let the 

heart 
Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 

Through all thy actions, counsels, and dis- 
course, 

Let mildness and religion guide thee out; 

If truth be thine, what needs a brutish 
force } 

But what's not good and just ne'er go 
about. 

Wrong not thy conscience for a rotten 
stick; 

That gain is dreadful which makes spirits 
sick. 

To God, thy countrie, and thy friend be 

true; 
If priest and people change, keep thou thy 

ground. 
Who sels religion is a Judas Jew ; 
And, oathes once broke, the soul cannot be 

sound. 
The perjurer's a devil let loose: what can 
Tie up his hands, that dares mock God and 

man } 

Seek not the same steps with the crowd ; 

stick thou 
To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind 
Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too; 



34 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Let follj dust it on, or lag behind. 
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul 
Out-runs the earth, and lines the utmost 
pole. 

To all that seek thee bear an open heart; 
Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap; 
If tryals come, this will make good thy 

part, 
For honesty is safe, come what can hap ; 
It is the good man's feast, the prince of 

flowres, 
Which thrives in storms, and smels best 

after showres. 



Seal not thy eyes up from the poor; but 
give 

Proportion to their merits, and thy purse : 

Thou may'st in rags a mighty prince re- 
lieve. 

Who, when thy sins call for't, can fence a 
curse. 

Thou shalt not lose one mite. Though 
waters stray, 

The bread we cast returns in fraughts one 
day. 

Spend not one hour so as to weep another, 
For tears are not thine own ; if thou giv'st 

words, 
Dash not with them thy friend, nor heav'n ; 

O smother 
A viperous thought; some syllables are 

swords. 
Unbitted tongues are in their penance 

double; 
They shaine their owners, and their hearers 

trouble. 



Injure not modest bloud, while spirits rise 
In judgment against lewdness; that's base 

wit. 
That voyds but filth and stench. Hast thou 

no prize 
But sickness or infection.? stifle it. 



Who makes his jest of sins, must be at 

least. 
If not a very devil, worse than beast. 

Yet fly no friend, if he be such indeed; 
But meet to quench his longings and thy 

thirst; 
Allow your joyes religion ; that done, speed, 
And bring the same man back thou wert at 

first. 
Who so returns not, cannot pray aright. 
But shuts his door, and leaves God out all 

night. 



To heighten thy devotions, and keep low 
All mutinous thoughts, what business e'er 

thou hast, 
Observe God in His works; here fountains 

flow, 
Birds sing, beasts feed, fish leap, and th' 

earth stands fast; 
Above are restless motions, running lights, 
Vast circling azure, giddy clouds, days 

nights. 



When seasons change, then lay before tliine 

eies 
His wondrous method; mark the various 

scenes 
In heav'n ; hail, thunder, rainbows, snow 

and ice, 
Calmes, tempests, light, and darknesby His 

means. 
Thou canst not misse His praise : each 

tree, herb, flowre. 
Are shadows of His wisdome and His 

pow'r. 

To meales when thou doest come, give 

Him the praise 
Whose arm supplied thee ; take what may 

suffice. 



And then be thankful ; O admire His ways 
Who fills the world's unempty'd granaries! 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



35 



A thankless feeder is a thief, his feast 
A very robbery, and himself no guest. 

High-noon thus past, thy time decays; pro- 
vide 

Thee other thoughts; away with friends 
and mirth ; 

The sun now stoops, and hastes his beams 
to hide 
! Under the dark and melancholy earth. 

All but preludes thy end. Thou art the 
man 

Whose rise, height, and descent is but a 
span. 

Yet, set as he doth, and 'tis well. Have all 
Thy beams home with thee; trim thy lamp, 

buy oyl. 
And then set forth : who is thus drest, the 

fall 
Furthers his glory, and gives death the 

foyl. 
Man is a summer's day; whose youth and 

fire 
Cool to a glorious evening, and expire. 

When night comes, list thy deeds; make 

plain the way 
'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not with 

delays; 
But perfect all before thou sleep'st: then 

say, 
■" Ther's one sun more strung on my bead 

of days." 
What's good score up for joy ; the bad well 

scann'd 
Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's 

hand. 



Thy accounts thus made, spend in the 

grave one hour 
Before thy time; be not a stranger there. 
Where thou may'st sleep whole ages; life's 

poor flow'r 
Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad spirits 

fear 



This conversation ; but the good man lyes 
Intombed many days before he dies. 

Being laid, and drest for sleep, close not 

thy eies 
Up with thy curtains; give tny soul the 

wing- 
In some good thoughts; so when the day 

shall rise. 
And thou unrak'st thy fire, those sparks 

will bring 
New flames; besides where these lodge, 

vain heats mourn 
And die; that bush, where God is, shall 

not burn. 
When thy nap's over, stir thv fire, unrake 
In that dead age; one beam i' th' dark out- 
vies 
Two in the day; then from the damps and 

ake 
Of night shut up thy leaves; be chaste; 

God prys 
Ihrough thickest nights; though then the 

sun be far, 
Do thou the works of day, and rise a star. 

Briefly, doe as thou would'st be done unto, 
Love God, and love thy neighbour; watch, 

and pray. 
These are the words and works of life; this 

do 
And live; who doth not thus, hath lost 

heav'n's way. 
O lose it not! look up, wilt thou change 

those lights 
For chains of darkness and eternal nights.'' 

Henry Vaughan. 



I AM NOT OLD. 

I AM not old — though years have cast 
Their shadows on my way ; 

I am not old — though youth has pass'd 
On rapid wings away. 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



For in my heart a fountain flows, 
And round it pleasant thoughts repose, 
And sympathies and feelings high. 
Spring like the stars on evening's sky. 

I am not old — Time may have set 

y His signet on my brow," 
And some faint furrows there have met, 

Which care may deepen now : 
Yet love, fond love, a chaplet weaves 
Of fresh, young buds and verdant leaves; 
And still in fancy I can twine 
Thouglits, sweet as flowers, that once were 
mine. 

Park Benjamin. 



FOR ANNIE. 

Thank Heaven! the crisis — 

Tiie danger, is past, 
And the lingering illness 

Is over at last — 
And the fever called " Living' 

Is conquer'd at last. 

Sadly, I know 

I am shorn of my strength. 
And no muscle I move 

As I lie at full length: 
But no matter! — I feel 

1 am better at length. 

And I rest so composedly, 

Now, in my bed. 
That any beholder 

Might fancy me dead — 
Might start at beholding me, 

Thinking me dead. 

The moaning and groaning. 
The sighing and sobbing. 

Are quieted now. 

With that horrible thi-obbing 

At heart : — ah that horrible, 
Horrible throbbing! 



The sickness — the nausea — 

The pitiless pain — 
Have ceased, with the fever 

That madden'd my brain — 
With the fever called " Living " 

Tliat burn'd in my brain. 

And oh ! of all tortures, 

That torture the worst 
Has abated — the terrible 

Torture of thirst 
For the napthaline river 

Of Passion accurst; 
I have drank of a water 

That quenches all thirst: — 

Of a water that flows. 

With a lullaby sound, 
From a spring but a very few 

Feet under ground — 
From a cavern not very far 

Down under ground. 

And ah! let it never 

Be foolishly said 
That my room it is gloomy 

And narrow my bed; 
For man never slept 

In a different bed — 
And, to sleepy you must slumber 

In jus* such a bed. 

My tantalized spirit 

Here blandlv reposes,. 
Forgetting, or never 

Regretting, its roses — 
Its old agitations 

Of myrtles and roses : 

For now, while so quietly 

Lying, it fancies 
A holier odor 

About it, of pansies — 
A rosemary odor. 

Commingled with pansies — 
With rue and the beautitul 

Puritan pansies. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



37 



And so it lies happily, 

Bathing in many 
A dream of the truth 

And the beauty of Annie- 
Drowned in a batli 

Of the tresses of Annie. 



She tenderly kiss'd me 

She fondly caress'd, 
And then I fell gently 

To sleep on her breast — 
Deeply to sleep 

From the heaven of her brea st. 



When the light was extinguish'd, 
She covered me warm, 

And she pray'd to the angels 
To keep me from harm — 

To the queen of the angels 
To shield me from harm. 



And I lie so composedly 

Now, in my bed, 
(Knowing her love,) 

That you fancy me dead — 
And I rest so contently, 

Now, in my bed, 
(With her love at my breast,) 

That you fancv me dead — 
That vou shudder to look at me, 

Thinking me dead: — 



But my heart it is brighter 

Than all of the many 
Stars of the sky, 

For it sparkles with Annie — 
It glows with the light 

Of the love of my Annie — 
With the thought of the light 

Of the eyes of my Annie. 

Edgar A. Poe. 



DARKNESS IS THINNING. 

Darkness is thinning; shadows are re- 
treating: 

Morning and light are coming in their 
beauty. 

Suppliant seek we, with an earnest outcry, 
God the Almighty. 

So that our Master, having mercy on us. 
May repel languor, may bestow salvation, 
Granting us, Father, of Thy loving kind- 
ness 

Glory hereafter! 

This of His mercy, ever blessed Godhead, 
Father, and Son, and Holy Spirit, give us — 
Whom through the wide world celebrate 
for ever 

Blessing and glory! 

St. Gregory the Great. 



NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

New England's dead! New England's 
dead 1 

On every hill they lie; 
On every field of strife, made red 

By bloody victory. 
Each valley, where the battle pour'd 

Its red and awful tide, 
Beheld the brave New England sword 

With slaughter deeply dyed. 
Their bones are on the northern hill. 

And on the southern plain, 
By brook and river, lake and rill. 

And by the roaring main. 

The land is holy where they fought, 

And holy where they fell; 
For bv their blood that land was bought. 

The land they loved so well. 
Then glory to that valiant band, 
The honor'd saviours of the land! 



38 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



O, few and weak their numbers were — 

A handful of brave men; 
But to their God thej gave their praver, 

And rush'd to battle then. 
The God of battles heard their crj, 
And sent to ihem the victory. 

They left the ploughshare in the mould, 

Their flocks and herds without a fold, 

The sickle in the unshorn grain, 

The corn, half garner'd, on the plain, 

And muster'd, in their simple dress. 

For wrongs to seek a stern redress. 

To right those wrongs, come weal, come 

wo, 
To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 

And where are ye, O fearless men? . 

And where are ye to-day? 
I call : — the hills reply again 

That ye have pass'd away; 
That on old Bunker's lonely height. 

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground. 
The grass grows green, the harvest bright 

Above each soldier's mound. 
The bugle's wild and warlike blast 

Shall muster them no more; 
An army now might thunder past, 

And they heed not its roar. 
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, 

In many a bloody day. 
From their old graves shall rouse them not. 

For they have passed away. 

Isaac McLellan. 



THE IMMORTALITY OF GENIUS. 

Language provides poor symbols of ex- 
pression 
When roused Imagination, holding rein. 
Sends airy forms of grace in vast proces- 
sion 
Across the poet's brain. 



An Orphic tongue would be too weak an 
agent 
To tell the tale of inspiration's hour; 
To paint an outline of the gorgeous page- 
ant, 
A Titian has no power. 

The meagre written record of the closet 
Saves but a few, pale glimmering pearls — 
no more 
When the lashed waves roll inland to de- 
posit 
Their wealth along the shore 

The queen of Beauty and her blushing 
daughters 
In Crathis bathed — that old poetic 
stream — 
And each dark ringlet from the sparkling 
waters 
Imbibed an amber gleam. 

Thus thoughts that send and will send on 
forever. 

From the dim plains of long ago, a light. 
Caught from Imagination's golden river 

Their glow divinely bright. 

When done with life, its fever, din, and 
jostle. 
How scant and poor a portion after all 
Of Nature's priest, and Art's renowned 
apostle 
Lies hid beneath the pall. 

Though grazing herd and hosts with clang- 
ing sabres 
Their graves forgotten trample rudely 
o'er. 
To tribes and nations, through their crown- 
ing labors. 
They speak for evermore. 

Oh, Genius! dowered with privilege im- 
mortal. 
Thus from the wastes of time to stretch 
thy hand, 



OF POETRr*AND SONG. 



39 



And, with a touch unfold the glittering 
portal 
Of an enchanted land! 

Death knows thee not, tho' long ago were 
blended 
Thy visible forms with undistinguished 
clay ; 
The dead are thej whose mission here is 
ended — 
Thy voice is heard to-day. 

Heard on the honeyed lip of Juliet melt- 
ing— 
In dreaming Richard's cry of guilty 
fear — 
In shouts that rise above the night-storm 
pelting 
From old distracted Lear: 

Heard in the organ-swell of Milton peal- 
ing— 
In Gray's elegaic sorrow for the past — 
In flute-notes from the muse of Spenser 
stealing, 
In Dryden's<bugle's blast: 

Heard in the matchless works of thy cre- 
ation, 
Speaking from canvas, scroll, and marble 
lips, 
In those deep awful tones of inspiration 
That baffle death's eclipse. 

W. H. C. HOSMER. 



BABY SONG. 

What is the little one thinking about? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt. 
Unwritten history! 
Unfathomed mystery! 
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and 

drinks, 
And chuckles and crows, and nods and 
winks, 



As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears. 
Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years; 
And he'll never know y 

Where the summers go; — 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so! 
Who can tell what a baby thinks? 
Who can follow the gossomer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day? — 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the bark of little souls — 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And shipped from Heaven on an ebbing 
tide! 
What does he think of his mother's eyes? 
What does he think of his mother's hair? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air? 
What does he think of his mother's 
breast — 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight — 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest? 
What does he think when her quick em- 
brace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 
Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds- 
Words she has learned to murmur well? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his e^es in soft eclipse. 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his litt'e finger-tips! 
Softly sinking, down he goes! 
Down he goes! Down he goes! 
See! He is hushed in sweet repose! 

Dk. J. G. Holland. 




SILENT SORROW. 

They sat in sorrow, side by side, 

For Lazarus was dead ; 
Not many words the sisters spake 

And few the tears they shed. 
Tlie quiet hoine of Bethany 

Was hallowed as a shrine; 
The shadows of the sepulchre 

Had made that home divine. 
And Mary's look, and Martha's sigh 

And the husiied stillness there, 
Bespoke the anguish of a grief. 

No language could declare. 
They sat in sorrow, side by side. 

And few the words they said; 
The house was very desolate. 

For Lazarus was dead. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



41 



JENNY KISSED ME! 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in, 
Time, you thief ! who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in. 
Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; 

Say that health and wealth have missed 

me; 
Say I 'm growing old, but add — 
Jenny kissed me! 

Leigh Hunt. 



EXCUSE. 

I TOO have suffered. Yet I know 
She is not cold, though she seems so; 
She is not cold, she is not light; 
But our ignoble souls lack might. 

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh. 
While we for hopeless passion die; 
Yet she could love, those eyes declare. 
Were but men nobler than they are. 

Eagerly once her gracious ken 
Was turned upon the sons of men; 
But light the serious visage grew — 
She looked, and smiled, and saw them 
through. 

Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
Our labored puny passion-fits — 
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 

Yet oh, that fate would let her see 
One of some worthier race than we — 
One for whose sake she once might prove 
How deeply she who scorns can love. 

His eyes be like the starry lights — 
His voice like sounds of summer nights — 
In all his lovely mien 3et piei-ce 
The magic 'of the universe ! 



And she to him will reach her hand, 
And gazing in his eyes will stand. 
And know her friend, and weep for glee, 
And cry — Long, long I 've looked for thee! 

Then will she weep — with smiles, till then 
Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
Till then her lovely eyes maintain 
Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 

Matthew Arnold. 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS IN NEW-ENGLAND. 

" Look now abroad— another race has filled 
Those populous borders— wide the wood recedes. 
And towns shoot up, and fer'ile realms are tilled; 
The land is full of harvests and green meads." 

Bryant. 



The breaking waves dashed high. 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 

And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed; 

And the heavy night hung dark, 

The hills and waters o'er. 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New-England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes. 

They, the true-hearted, came'; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame; 

Not as the flying come. 

In silence and in fear; — 
Thev shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang. 

And the stars heard, and the sea; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods 
rang 
To the anthem of the free. 



43 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of tlie forest roared — 

This was tlieir welcome home. 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band: 
Why had they come to witiier there, 

Away from their childhood's land? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afixr.' 

Bright jewels of the mine.' 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war.' — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 

Ay, call it holy groimd. 

The soil where first they trod; — 
They have left unstained what there they 
found — 
Freedom to worship God. 

Felicia Hemans. 



THE BROOKLET. 

Sweet brooklet, ever gliding, 
Now high the mc'untains riding. 
The lone vale now dividing, 

Whither awaj'.' — 
With pilgrim course I flow. 
Or in summer's scorching glow' 
Or o'er moonless wastes of snow. 

Nor stoop, nor stay; 
For O, by high behest, 
To a bright abode of rest 
In my parent Ocean's breast, 

I hasten away ! " 

Man}' a dark morass, 
Many a craggy mass, 
Thy feeble force must pass; 

Yet, yet delay! — 



" Though the marsh be dire and deep, 
Though the crag be stern and steep, 
On, on my course must sweep; 
I may not stay : 
For O, be it east or ^v■est, 
To a home of glorious rest 
In a bright sea's boundless breast, 
I hasten away ! " 

The warbling bowers beside thee 
The laughing flowers that hide thee 
With soft accord they chide thee, — 

Sweet brooklet, stay! 
' I taste of the fragrant flowers, 
I respond to the warbling bowers, 
And sweetly they charm the hours 

Of my winding way; 
But ceaseless still in quest 
Of that everlasting rest 
In my parent's boundless breast, 

I hasten away ! " 

Knowest thou that dread abyss.' 
Is it a scene of bliss.' 
O, rather cling to this, — 

Sweet brooklet, stay! 
' O, who shall fitly tell 
What wonders there may dwell.' 
That world of mystery well 

May strike dismay : 
But I know 't is my parent's breast; 
There held I must needs be blest. 
And with joy to that promised rest 

I hasten away ! " 
Sir Robert Grant. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. 

Haifa league, half a league, 

Haifa league onward. 
All in the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred. 
Cannon to right of them. 

Cannon to left of them, 
Into the valley of death, 

Rode the six hundred; 



OF POETET AND SONG. 



45 



For up came an order which 


When can their glory fade.' 


Some one had blundered. 


Oh the wild charge they made! 


" Forward, the light brigade! 


All the world wondered. 


Take the guns!" Nolan said: 


Honor the charge they made! 


Into the valley of death, 


Honor the light brigade. 


Rode the six hundred. 


Noble si.x hundred ! 




Alfred Tennyson. 


" Forward the light brigade! " 




No man was there dismayed — 




Not though the soldier knew 




Some one had blundered: 




Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die — 


LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMI 
GRANT. 


Into the vallev of death. 
Rode the six hundred. 


I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 
Where we sat side by side 




On a bright May mornin' long ago. 


Cannon to right of them, 


When first you were my bride; 


Cannon to left of them, 


The corn was springin' fresh and green, 


Cannon in front of them, 


And the lark sang loud and high; 


Volleyed and thundered. 


And the red was on your lip, Mary, 


Stormed at with shot and shell, 


And the love-light in your eye. 


Boldly they rode and well ; 




Into the jaws of death. 
Into the mouth of hell. 
Rode the six hundred. 


The place is little changed, Mary ; 

The day is bright as then ; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear. 


Fi'.^r.ei' all their sabres bare, 


And the corn is green again ; 
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 


FlasI ed all at once in air, 


And your breath, warm on my cheek; 


Sabring the gunners there. 


And I still keep list'nin' for the words 


Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered. 


You never more will speak. 


Plunged in the battery smoke. 
With many a desp'rate stroke 
The Russian line they broke; 
Then they rode back, but not — 
Not the six hundred. 


'T is but a step down yonder lane, 
And the little church stands near — 

The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
I see the spire from here. 

But the gra\e-yard lies between, Mary, 




And my step might break your rest — 


Cannon to right of them. 


For I '\'e laid you, darling, down to sleep, 


Cannon to left of them. 


With your baby on your breast. 


Cannon behind them. 




Volleyed and thundered. 


I 'm very lonely now, Mary — 


Stormed at with shot and shell, 


For the poor make no new friends; 


While horse and hero fell. 


But, oh! they love the better still 


Those that had fought so well 


The few our Father sends! 


'Came from the jaws of death. 


And \ou ^\•ere all I had, Mary — 


Back from the mouth of hell. 


My blessin' and my pride: 


All that was left of them, 


There 's nothing left to care for now, 


Left of six hundred. 


• Since my poor Mary died. 



46 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Yours was tlie good, brave heart, Mary, 

That still kept hoping on. 
When the trust in God had left my soul., 

And my arm's young strength was gone: 
There was comfort ever on your lip, 

And the kind look on your brow — 
I bless you, Mary, for that same. 

Though you cannot hear me now. 

I thank you for the patient smile 

When your heart was fit to break — 
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, 

And you hid it for my sake; 
I bless you for the pleasant word. 

When your heart was sad and sore — 
Oh I I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 

Where grief can 't reach you more! 

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, 

My Mary — kind and true! 
But I '11 not forget you, darling, 

In the land I 'm goin' to; 
They say there 's bread and \\ork for all. 

And the s«n shines always there — 
But I '11 not forget old Ireland, 

Were it fifty times as fair! 

And often in those grand old woods 

I '11 sit, and shut my eyes. 
And my heart will travel back again 

To the place where Mary lies; 
And I '11 think I see the little stile 

Where we sat side by side, 
And the springin' corn, and the bright May 
morn. 

When first you were 1113' bride. 

Lady Dufferin. 



PLAYING WITH LOVE. 

Again the trees stand bare upon the moor. 
And bend their withered heads before the 
wind ; 
Again the snow is heaped up at the door. 

And frost is making many a fairy blind. 
The spring sank into the sumnier-time, and 
June 



Fell into autumn and her fruitful store; 
December comes again to the old tune. 
And we are lovers still — and nothing 
more. 



Now, wny should we delay our own delight, 

Defer the hope, and wait for evil days 
To cover love's young blossom with a 
blight. 

And sow the seeds of sorrow on oiu* ways.'' 
If we indeed have love enough to li\ e, 

Why should we make a fear that is not 
now ? 
Or Avhy should Fortune any blessing give, 

While we care not to woo her with a vow.'* 



There is a time when life is life indeed. 

When love is love and all about it bright ; 
It is betrothal when great joy has need 

Of sleep to cool the hot heart of delight: 
Because of you this sweetness came to me, 

And with a chain of flowers my life was- 
led. 
But after all what maj' the meaning be.'' 

Why, a betrothal if we may not wed. 



Look at this picture, love; do you not see 
The sun flush on the summer's youngest 
bloom.' 
Here are three sisters; one of them will be 
A Avife, and two will make their own 
dark doom : 
See how they play with Love ; but he will 
bring 
A bitter day when they shall both atone. 
And find too late the knowledge and its sting. 
That maids who play with Love may 
play alone. 

Why will you give me but a little love. 

And spread it over many droning days.' 
Why for a little fault will you reprove. 

And spoil the harmony of pleasant ways.' 
If you will serve me so, then let the eyes 

Of iny own fault accuse me while I live; 
But I may learn it was not all a prize 

To w in a woman w ho could not forgive. 




PLAYING WITH LOVE. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



m 



rt may be that you will not speak again, 

But I have felt that I must come to say 
That you have filled my weary weeks with 
pain, 
And I have had no peace for many a day : 
Though you still hold the power that 
would bless 
My years, and with full joy my life 
endow, 
Yet your unkindness brings me to confess, 
I never loved you less than I love now. 



Now in my heart of hearts I do rejoice. 

And still I do repent for my hard speech. 
Which turns upon me now that your dear 
voice 
Has placed the golden fruit within my 
reach : 
Let us be married in the early spring. 
When blossoms bring new honey for the 
bees. 
And when new daisies come and new birds 
sing. 
And new green leaves come out upon 
old trees. 

—Guy Roslyx. 



FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 

A PATHETIC BALLAD. 

Ben Battle was a soldier bold. 

And used to war's alarms; 
But a cannon-ball took oft" his legs, 

So he laid down his arms. 

Now as they bore him off the field, 
Said he, " Let others shoot: 

For here I leave my second leg, 
And the Forty -second toot." 

The army-surgeons made him limbs: 

Said he, " The 're only pegs; 
But there 's as wooden members quite. 
As represent my legs." 
♦la 



Now Ben he loved a pretty maid— 

Her name was Nelly Gfay; 
So he went to pay her his devours, 

When he devoured his pay. 

But when he called on Nelly Gray, 

She made him (juite a scoft"; 
And when she saw his wooden legs. 

Began to take them off. 

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! 

Is this your love so warm.' 
The love that loves a scarlet coat 

Should be more uniform." 

Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 

For he was blithe and brave; 
But I will never have a man 

With both legs in the grave. 

" Before you had those timber toes 

Your loVe I did allow; 
But then, you know, you stand upon 

Another footing now." 

" O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray; 

For all your jeering speeches. 
At duty's call I left my legs 

In Badajos's breaches." 

"Why then," said she, "you've lost the 
feet 

Of legs in war's alarms. 
And now vou cannot wear your shoes 

Upon your feats of arms." 

" O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! 

I know why you refuse : 
Though I 've no feet, some other man 

Is standing in my shoes. 

" I wish I ne'er had seen your face; 

But, now, a long farewell ! 
For you will be my death; — alas! 

You will not be my Nell! " 

Now when he went from Nelly Gray 

His heart so heavy got, 
And life was such a burden grown, 

It made him take a knot. 



oO 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



So round his melancholy neck 

A rope he did entwine, 
And, for his second time in life, 

Enlisted in the line. 

One end he tied around a beam, 
And then removed his pegs; 

And, as his legs were off, — of course 
He soon was oft' his legs. 

And there he hung, till he was dead 

As any nail in town ; 
For, though distress had cut him uji. 

It could not cut him down. 

A dozen men sat on his corpse, 

To find out why he died — 
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads. 

With a stake in his inside. 

Thomas Hood. 



THE WELCOME. 

Come in the evening, or come in the morn- 
ing; 
Come when you're looked for, or come 

without warning; 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before 

you, 
And the oftener you come here the more 

I'll adore you! 
Light is my heart since the day we were 

plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me was 

blighted; 
The green of the trees looks far greener 

than e\er. 
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers 

don't sever!" 

I '11 pull you sweet flowers to w ear if you 
choose them. 

Or, after you 've kissed them, they '11 lie on 
my bosom ; 

I '11 fetch from the mountain its breeze to 
inspire you ; 

I 'h fetch from my fancy a tale that won't 
tire you. 

Oh! your step's like the rain to the sum- 
mer vexed farmer, 



Or sabre and shield to a knight without 

armor ; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise 

above me. 
Then, wandering, I '11 wish you in silence 

to love me. 

We'll look through the trees at the clift" 

and the e\'rie; 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of 

the fairy; 
We'll look on the stars and we '11 list to the 

ri\er. 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you 

can gi\e her. 
Oh! she'll wiiisper you, — "Love as un- 
changeably beaming. 
And trust, when in secret most tunefully 

streaming 
Till th.e starlignt of heaven above us shall 

qui\er. 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's 

river." 

So come in the evening, or come in the 

morning; 
Come when you 're looked for, or come 

without warning; 
Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before 

you, 
And the oftener you come the more I'll 

adore you ! 
Light is my heart since the day we were 

plighted ; 
Red is my cheek that they told me wag 

bligiited; 
The green of the trees looks far greener 

than ever. 
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers 

do n't sever!" 

Thomas Davis. 



A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. 

May the Babylonish curse 

Strait confound my stammering verse, 

If I can a passage see 

In this word-perplexity. 

Or a fit expression find, 

Or a language to my mind 




THK WELCOME. 



! 

1 OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 53 


\ (Still the phrase is wide or scant), 


Some few vapors thou may'st raise, 


To take leave of thee, great plant! 


The weak brain may serve to amaze; 


Or in anj terms relate 


But to the reins and noble heart 


Half my love, or half my hate; 


Can'st nor life nor heat impart. 


For I hate, yet love, thee so, 




That, whichever thing 1 shew. 


Brother of Bacchus, later born ! 


The plain truth will seem to be 


The old world was sure forlorn, 


A constrained hyperbole, 


Wanting thee, ttiat aidest more 


And the passion to proceed 


The god's victories than, before, 


More for a mistress than a weed. 


All his panthers, and the brawls 




Of his piping Bacchanals. 


Sooty retainer to the vine! 


These, as stale, we disallow. 


Bacchus's black servant, negro fine! 


Or judge of thee meant: only thou 


! Sorcerer! that mak'st us dote upon 


His true Indian conquest art; 


Thy begrimed complexion, 


And, for ivy round his dart, 


And, for thy pernicious sake. 


The reformed god now weaves 


More and greater oaths to break 


A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. 


Than reclaimed lovers take 




'Gainst women ! Thou thy siege dost lay 


Scent to match thy rich perfume 


Much, too, in the female way. 


Chemic art did ne'er presume — 


While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath 


Through her quaint alembic strain, 


Faster than kisses, or than death. 


None so sovereign to the brain. 




Nature, that did in thee excel. 


Thou in such a cloud dost bind us 


Framed again no second smell. 


That our worst foes cannot find us. 


Roses, violets, but toys 


And ill fortune, that would thwart us. 


For the smaller sort of boys. 


Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; 


Or for greener damsels meant; 


While each man, through thy height'ning 


Thou art the only manly scent. 


steam, 




Does like a smoking Etna seem; 


Stinkingest of the stinking kind! 


Arid all about us does express 


Filth of the mouth and fog of the mir d '. 


(Fancy and wit in richest dress) 


Africa, that brags- her foyson. 


A Sicilian fruitfulness. 


Breeds no such prodigious poison . 




Henbane, nightshade, both together, 


t Thou through such a mist dost show us 


Hemlock, aconite 


That our best friends do not know us, 




And for those allowed features 


Nay, rather. 


Due to reasonable creatures, 


Plant divine, of rarest virtue! 


Liken'st us to fell chimeras, 


Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 


Monsters — that who see us, fear us ; 


'T was but in a sort I blamed thee ; 


Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, 


None e'er prospered who defamed thee; 


• Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. 


Irony all, and feigned abuse, 




Such as perplext lovers use ; 


Bacchus we know, and we allow 


At a need, when, in despair 


His tipsy rites. But what art thou. 


To paint forth their fairest fair, 


' That but by reflex can'st shew 


Or in part but to express 


What his deity can do — 


That exceeding comeliness 


As the false Egyptian spell 


Which their fancies doth so strike, ,' 


Aped the true Hebrew miracle? 


They borrow language of dislike; 



54 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And, instead of dearest Miss, 
Jewel, honej, sweetheart, bliss. 
And those forms of old admiring, 
Call her cockatrice and siren. 
Basilisk, and all that 's evil. 
Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, 
Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor, 
Monkey, ape, and twenty more — 
Friendly trait'ress, loving foe — 
Not that she is truly so. 
But no other way they know, 
A contentment to express 
Borders so upon excess 
That they do not rightly wot 
Whether it be from pain or not. 

Or, as men, constrained to part 
With what's nearest to their heart. 
While their sorrow 's at the height 
Lose discrimination quite. 
And their hasty wrath let fall. 
To appease their frantic gall. 
On the darling thing, whatever, 
Whence they feel it death to sever, 
Though it be, as they, perforce, 
Guiltless of the sad divorce. 

For I must (nor let it grieve thee. 
Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave 

thee. 
For thy sake, tobacco, I 
Would do anything but die. 
And but seek to extend my days 
Long enough to sing thy praise. 
But, as she, who once hath been 
A king's consort, is a queen 
Ever after, nor will hate 
Any tittle of her state 
Though a widow, or divorced. 
So I, from thy converse forced, 
The old name and style retain, 
A right Catherine of Spain ; 
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys 
Of the blest tobacco boys; 
Where though I, by sour physician. 
Am debarred the full fruition 
Of thy favors, I may catch 
Some collateral sweets, and snatch 
Sidelong odors, that give life 
Like glances from a neighbor's wife; 



And still live in the by-places 
And the suburbs of thy graces ; 
And in thy borders take delight, 
An unconquered Canaanite. 

Charles Lamb. 



ONCE AND FOR AYE. 

He sang as he la_v on a Highland mountain, 
That English knight who had ne\er 
known love, 
" What song so sweet as the chiming 
fountain.'' 
What blue so blue as the heaven above.' " 
Fond heart! — for nearer and nearer drew 
A sweeter voice and an eye more blue. 

"O what can blush by the purple heather.'' 
What gold with the gorse-flower dare 
compare.' " 

He turned, fond heart, and found them to- 
gether 
On her glowing cheek and her glittering 
hair. 

Now what for the knight are the hill 
fiowers' dyes. 

The fountain's voice and the sapphire skies.' 

She had lost her path, that Lowland lady. 
Whose heart had never a lord confessed; 

O bright she blushed, and gentle prayed he 
Would guide her over the mountain crest. 

And little loth was the gallant knight 

To squire the steps of that lady bright. 

So he took her hand, and they passed to- 
gether, 
The knight and the lady unlearned of 
love. 

Through the golden gorse and the purple 
heather — 
O laughingly beamed the blue above. 

And the fountain sang as their feet went 
by, 

The Sibyl fountain — '■'■For aye—Jor ayeT 

The Author of " Songs of Killarney." 




OXCE AXD FOR AVE. 



"O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR IN- 
VISIBLE." 

O MAY I join the choir invisible 

Of those immortal dead who live again 

In minds made better by their presence : 

live 
In pulses stirred to generosity, 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
For miserable aims that end with self, 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night 

like stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge 

man's search 
To vaster issues. 

So to live is heaven: 
To make undying music in the world. 
Breathing the beauteous order that controls 
With growing irony the growing mind of 

man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agon- 
ized 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved. 
Its discords quenched by meeting har- 
monies. 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, fairer self. 
That sobbed religiously in groaning song. 
That watched to ease the burden of the 

world. 
Laboriously tracing what must be. 
And what may yet be better — saw within 
A worthier image for the sanctuary. 
And shaped it forth before the multitude 
Divinely human, raising worship so 
To higher reverence more mixed with 

love — 
That better self shall live till human Time 
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 
Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 
Which martyred men have made more 
glorious 



For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony^ 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty— 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. 
And in diftusion ever more intense. 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 

George Eliot. 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 

I LOVE to look on a scene like this, 

Of wild and careless play, 
And persuade myself that I am not old, 

And my locks are not yet gray; 
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart. 

And makes his pulses fly, 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore 
years. 

And they say that I am old — 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 

And my years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true — it is very true — 

I am old, and I " bide my time;" 
But my heart will leap at a scene like this. 

And I half renew my prime. 

Play on! play on! I am with you there, 

In the midst of your merry ring; 
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 

And the rush of the breathless swing. 
I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 

And I whoop the smothered call, 
And mv feet slip on the seedy floor, 

^\nd I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall 
come 

And I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best, is a weary place. 

And my pulse is get'ing low; 



58 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



But the grave is dark, and the heart will 
fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 

To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



MOTHER AND POET.* 

* This was Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and 
patriot, wliose sons were killed at Ancona and 
Gaeta. 

TURIN, — AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA. 18G1. 

Dead! one of them shot hy the sea in the 
east, 
And one of them shot in the west liy the 
sea. 
Dead I both my boys! When you sit at the 
feast 
And are wanting a great song for Italy 
free. 

Let none look at me\ 

Yet I was a poet only last year, 

And good at my art, for a woman men 
said; 
But this woman, this wlio is agonized here. 
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in 
her liead 
Forever instead. 

What art ean a woman be good at.'' O, 
vain ! 
What art is she good at but hiu-ting her 
breast 
With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile 
at the pain.- 
Ah, boys, how vou hurt! you were strong 
as you pressed, 
And I proud by the test. 

What art's for a woman .^ To hold on her 
knees 
Both darlings! to feel all their arms 
round her throat 
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees 



And 'broider the long-clothes and neat 
little coat; 
To dream and to dote. 

To teach them . . . It stings there! / 
made them indeed 
Speak plain the word " eoimtry," / 
taught them, no doubt, 
That a country 's a thing men should die 
for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant cast out. 

And when their eyes flashed . . . O 
my beautiful eyes ! . . 
I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the 
wheels 
Of the guns, and denied not. — But then the 
surprise. 
When one sits quite alone! — Then one 
weeps, then one kneels! 
— God! how the house feels! 

At first, ha]ipv news came, in gav letters 
moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life, and glory, 
and how 
They both loved me, and soon, corning 
home to be spoiled, 
In return would fan oti' every fly from 
my brow 
With their green laurel bough. 

Then was triiunph at Turin : " Ancona 
was free ! " 
And some one came out of the cheers in 
the street 
With a face pale as stone, to say something 
to me. 
— My Guido was dead! — I fell down at 
his feet. 
While they cheered in the street. 

I bore it; friends soothed me: mv grief 
looked sublime 
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re- 
mained 

To be leant on and walked with, recalling 
the time 



OF PUETRl' AND SONG. 



59 



When the first grew immortal, while 
both of us strained 
To the height he had gained. 

And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, 
more strong, 
Writ now but in one hand : " I was not 
to faint. 
One loved me for two — would be with me 
ere long : 
And ' Viva Italia ' lie died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 

My Nanni would add " he was safe and 
aware 
Of a presence that turned oft' the balls — 
was imprest 
It was Guido himself, who knew what I 
could bear. 
Ami how 'twas impossible, quite dis- 
possessed. 
To live on for the rest." 

On which without pause up the telegraph 
line 
Swept smoothly the next news from 
Gaeta : — 

" Shot. 
Tell his mother." Ah, ah, " his " " their " 
mother; not " mine " 
No voice says " »iy mother " again to me 
What! 
You think Guido forgot.? 

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzv 
with heaven. 
They drop earth's affections, conceive 
not of woe.'' 
I think not. Themselves were too latelv 
forgiven 
Through that Love and Sorrow which 
reconciled so 
The above and below. 

O Christ of the seven wounds, who 

lookd'st through the dark 
To the face of thy mother! consider I 

pray. 
How we common mothers stand desolate, 

mark. 



Whose sons, not being Christs, die with 
eyes turned awav, 
And no last word to say! 

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. 
We all 
Have been patriots, yet each house must 
always keep one. 
'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a 
wall. 
And when Italy's won, for what end 
is it done 
If we have not a son.' 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what 
then ? 
When the fair wicked queen sits no 
more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls 
out of men, 
When your guns at Cavalli with final 
retort 
Have cut the game short, — 

When Venice and Rome keep their new 
jubilee. 
When your flag takes all heaven for 
its white, green, and red. 
When you have your country from moun- 
tain to sea. 
When King Victor has Italy's crown 
on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) — 

What then.' Do not mock me. Ah, ring 

your bells low. 
And burn your lights faintiv! — ^1/r coun- 
try is there. 
Above the star pricked by the last peak 
of snow. 
My Italy's there, — with my brave civic 
pair, 
To disfranchise despair! 

Forgive me. Some women bear children 

in strength, 
And bite back the cry of their pain in 

self- scorn. 
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring 

us at length 



60 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Into wail such as this! — and we sit, on 
forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 

Dead! one of them shot bj the sea in 
the east, 
And one of them shot in the west by 
the sea! 
Both! both my boys! — If in keeping the 
feast 
You want a great song for your Italy 
free, 
Let none look at me\ 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



OH! EARTH IS CHEATING EARTH. 

Oh ! Earth is cheating Earth 

From age to age forever ; 
She laughs at faith and worth, 

And dreams she shall die never; 
Never, never, never! 
And dreams she shall die never! 

And Hell is cursing Hell 

From age to age forever ; 
Its groans ring out the knell 

Of souls that may die never; 
Never, never, never! 
Of souls that may die never! 

But Heaven is blessing Heaven 

From age to age forever; 
And thanks to God are given 

For bliss that can die never; 
Never, never, never! 
For bliss that can die never! 

Philip Jamels Bailey. 



OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 

Out of the old house, Nancy — moved up 

into the new ; 
All the hurry and worry are just as good 

as through; 



Only a bounden duty remains for you and 

I, 
And that's to stand on the door-step, here, 

and bid the old house good-bye. 

What a shell we've lived in, these nineteen 

or twenty years! 
Wonder it hasn't smashed in and tumbled 

about our ears; 
Wonder it stuck together and answered till 

to-day. 
But every individual log was put up here 

to stay. 

Things looked rather new, though, when 

this old house was built. 
And things that blossomed you, would have 

made some women wilt; 
And every other day, then, as sure as day 

would break. 
My neighbor Ager come this way, invitin' 

me to " shake." 

And you, for want of neighbors, was some- 
times blue and sad. 

For wolves and bears and wildcats were the 
nearest ones you had ; 

But lookin' ahead to the clearin', we worked 
with all our might, 

Until we was fairly out of the woods, and 
things was goin' right. 

Look up there at our new house — ain't it a 

thing to see.'' 
Tall and big and handsome, and new as new 

can be; 
All in apple-pie order, especially the shelves,. 
And never a debtor to say but what we own 

it all ourselves. 

Look at our old log house — how little it 

now appears ! 
But it's never gone back on us, for nineteen 

or twenty years; 
An' I won't go back on it now, or go to 

pokin' fun. 
There's such a thing as praisin' a thing for 

the tjood that it has done. 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



61 



Probably jou remember how rich we was 

that night, 
When we was fairly settled, an' had things 

snug and tight; 
We feel as proud as you please, Nancy, 

over our house that's new, 
But we felt as proud imder this old roof, and 

a good deal prouder, too. 

Never a handsomer house was seen beneath 

the sun, — 
Kitchen and parlor and bedroom, we had 

'em all in one; 
And the fat old wooden clock that we 

bought when we come West, 
Was tickin' away in the corner there, an' 

doin' its level best. 

Trees was all around us, a whisperin' cheer- 
ing words, 

Loud was the squirrel's chatter, and sweet 
the song of birds ; 

And home grew sweeter and brighter — our 
courage began to mount — 

And things looked hearty and happy, then, 
and work appeared to count. 

And here, one night it happened, when 

things was goin' bad, 
We fell in a deep old quarrel^the first we 

ever had ; 
And when you give out and cried, then I 

like a fool give in. 
An' thgn we agreed to rub all out, and start 

the thing ag'in. 

Here it was, you remember, we sat when 

the day was done. 
And you was a makin' clothing that wasn't 

for either one; 
And often a soft word of love I was soft 

enough to say. 
And the wolves was howlin' in the woods 

not twenty rods away. 

Then our first-born baby — a regular little 

joy- 
Though I fretted a little, because it wasn't 

a boy; 



Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with all iier 

pouts and smiles.'' 
Why, settlers come to see that show, a half 

a dozen miles. 

Yonder sat the cradle — a homely, home- 
made thing; 

And man3' a night I rocked it, providin' you 
would sing; 

And many a little squatter brought up with 
us to stay. 

And so that cradle, for many a year, was 
never put away. 

How they kept a comin' — so cunnin' and 

fat and small ! 
How they growed ! 'Twas a wonder how 

we found room for 'em all; 
But though the house was crowded, it empty 

seemed that day. 
When Jennie lay by the fire place, there, 

and moaned her life away. 

And right in there, the preacher, with Bible 

and hymn-book stood, 
" 'Twixt the dead and the living," and 

" hoped 'twould do us good." 
And the little whitewood cofiin on the table 

there was set. 
And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I 

could see it yet. 

Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, 

you know ; 
Just by a thread you hung, and vou e'en 

a'most let go; 
And here is the spot I tumbled, and give 

the Lord His due. 
When the doctor said the fever turn'd, an' 

he could fetch you through. 

Yes, a deal has happened to make this old 

house dear: 
Christenin's, funerals, weddin's — what 

havn't we had here.'' 
Not a log in this buildin' but its memories 

has got, — 
And not a nail in this old floor but touches 

a tender spot. 



Out of the old house, Nancv — moveti up 

into the new; 
All the hurry, and worry is just as good as 

through ; 
But I tell you a thing right here, that I 

ain't ashamed to sa\- : 
There's precious things in this old house 

we never can take awav. 

Here the old house will stand, but not as it 

stood before; 
^^'inds will whistle through it and rains wil^ 

flood the floor; 
And over the hearth once blazing the snow 

drifts oft will pile. 
And the old thing will seem to be a 

moin-nin' all the while. 

Fare you well, old house! you're naught 

that can feel or see. 
But you seem like a hiunan being — a dear 

old friend to me; 
And we never will have a better home, if 

my opinion stands, 
Until we commence a keepin' house in the 

" house not made with hands." 

Will M. Carleton. 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 

Near to the nest of liis little dame. 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gavly dressed. 

Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest. 
Hear him call in his merry note: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 



Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband 
sings : 
Bob-o' link, bob o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she. 

One weak chirp is her only note, 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he: 
Pouring boasts from his little throat : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can, 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay. 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! 
'J'here as the mother sits a'l day, 

Robert is singing with all his might: 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 

Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell 

Six wide mouths are open for food; 
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. 
Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Linooln at length is made 
Sober with work, and silent with care; 

Oft' is his holidaj' garment laid, 
Half forgotten that merrv air: 



OF POETRT 


AND SONG. 63 ' 


Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 


Perchance the bald old eagle 


Spink, spank, spink; 


On gray Beth-peor's height 


Nobody knows but my mate and I 


Out of his rocky eyrie 


Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 


Looked on the wondrous sight; 


Chee, chee, chee. 


Perchance the lion stalking 1 




Still shuns that hallowed spot; 


Summer wanes; the children are grown; 


For beast and bird have seen and heard 


Fun and frolic no more he knows; 


That which man knoweth not. 


Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; 




Oft" he flies, and we sing as he goes: 


But, when the warrior dieth, 


Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link, 


I lis comrades of the war, 


Spink, spank, spink; 


With arms reversed and nuiifled drums, 


When 3'ou can pipe that merry old strain, 


Follow the funeral car; 


Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 


They show the banners taken. 


Chee, chee, chee. 


They tell his battles won ; 


William Cullen Bryant. 


And after him lead his masterless steed, 




While peals the minute gun 
Amid the noblest of the land 




BURIAL OF MOSES. 






Men lay the sage to rest, 


"And he buried him in a valley in the land of 


And give the bard an honored place. 


Moab, over ajjainst Beth-peor; but no man knoweth 


With costly marbles drest, 


of his sepulchre unto this day." — Deut. xxxiv. 6. 


In the great minster transcept 


By Nebo's lonely mountain. 


Where lights like glories fall. 


On this side Jordan's wave, 


And the sweet choir sings, and the organ 


In a vale in the land of Moab, 


rings 


There lies a lonely grave ; 


Along the emblazoned hall. 


But no man built that sepulchre. 




And no man saw it e'er; 


This was the oravest warrior 


For the angels of God upturned the sod. 


That ever buckled sword; 


And laid the dead man there. 


This the most gifted poet 




That ever breathed a word ; 


That was the grandest funeral 


And never earth's philosopher 


That ever passed on earth ; 


Traced with his golden pen 


Yet no man heard the trampling, 


On the deathless page truths half so sage 


Or saw the train go forth : 


As he wrote down for men. 


Noiselessly as the daylight 




Comes when the night is done. 


And had he not high honor.'' — 


And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 


The hillside for a pall ! 


Grows into the great sun; 


To lie in state while angels wait, * 




With stars for tapers tall ! ' 


Noiselessly as the spring-time 


And the dark rock-pines, like tossing 


Her crown of verdure weaves. 


plumes, 
Over his bier to wave, 


And all the trees on all the hills 


Unfold their thousand leaves: 


And God's own hand in that lonely land. 


So without sound of music 


To lay him in his grave ! — 


Or voice of them that wept. 




Silently down from the mountain's crown 


In that strange grave without a name, 


\ The great procession swept. 


Whence his uncoftlned clay 



64 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Shall break again— O wondrous thought !- 

Before the judgment-day, 

And stand, with glory wrapped around, 

On the hills he never trod, 

And speak of the strife that won our life 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 

O dark Beth-peor's hill! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 

And teach them to be still. 

God hath His mysteries of grace, 

Ways that we cannot tell, 

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 

Of him he loved so well. 

Ckcil Frances Alexander. 



IMPRESSIONS. 



LE JARDIN. 

The lily's withered chalice falls 
Around its rod of dusty gold, 
And from the beach trees on the wold 

The last wood-pigeon coos and calls. 

The gaudy leonine simflower 

Hangs black and barren on its stalk. 
And down the windy garden walk 

The dead leaves scatter, — hour by hour. 

Pale privet-petals white as milk 
Are blown into a snowy mass; 
The roses lie upon the grass, 

Like little shreds of crimson slk, 

II 



A white mist drifts across the shrouds, 
A wild moon in this wintry sky 
Gleams like an angry lion's eye 

Out of a mane of tawny clouds. 

The muffled steersman at the wheel 
Is but a shadow in the gloom ; — 
And in the throbbing engine room 

Leap the long rods of polished steel. 



The shattered storm has left its trace 
Upon this huge and heaving dome. 
For the thin threads of yellow foam 

Float on the waves like ravelled lace. 

Oscar Wilde. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS 
SUFFERING CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah! whither strays the immortal mind.' 
It cannot die, it cannot stray. 

But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way, 
Or fill at once the realms of space 

A thing of eyes that all survey.'' 

Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies displayed. 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all there was at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eyes shall roll through chaos back, 
And where the farthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
While sun is quenched or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure. 
An age shall fleet like earthly year. 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing 

O'er all, through all its thought shall 
fly; 
A nameless and eternal thing 

Forgetting what it was to die. 

Lord Byron. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



65 



CROWN HIM . WITH MANY 
CROWNS. 

Crown Him with many crowns, 
The Lamb upon His throne; 
Hark! how the heavenly anthem drowns 
All music but its own, 

Awake, my soul, and sing 
Of Him who died for thee; 
And hail Him as thy matchless King 
Through all eternity. 

Crown Him the Virgin's Son! 
The God incarnate born. 
Whose arm those crimson trophies won 
Which now His brow adorn. 

Fruit of the mystic rose, 
As of that rose the stem ; 
The root whence mercy ever flows, 
The Babe bf Bethlehem. 

Crown Him the Lord of Love: 
Behold His hands and side! 
Those wounds, yet visible above, 
In beauty glorified. 

No angel in the sky 
Can fully bear that sight. 
But downward bends his wondering eye 
At mysteries so bright. 

Crown Him the Lord of Peace, 
Whose power a sceptre sways 
In heaven and earth, that wars may cease, 
And all be prayer and praise. 

His reign shall know no end ; 
And round His pierced feet 
Fair flowers of paradise extend 
Their fragrance, ever sweet. 

Crown Him the Lord of Years 
The Potentate of time. 
Creator of the rolling spheres 
Ineft'able sublime; 

Glassed in a sea of light. 
Whose everlasting waves 



Reflect His form — the Infinite! 
Who lives, and loves, and saves. 

Crown Him the Lord of Heaven! 
One with the Father known, 
And the blest Spirit, through Him given 
From yonder triune throne! 

All hail. Redeemer, hail! 
For Thou hast died for me : 
Thy praise and glory shall not fail 
Throughout eternity. 

Matthew Bridges. 



WISDOM. 

Wisdom took her harp, and stood in place 

Of frequent intercourse, stood in every 
gate. 

By every way, and walked in every street; 

And lifting up her voice proclaimed: "Be 
wise, 

Ye fools! Be of an understanding heart; 

Forsake the wicked,come not near his house, 

Pass by, make haste, depart, and turn 
away. 

Me follow — me, whose ways are pleasant- 
ness, 

WHiose paths are peace, whose end is per- 
fect joy." 

The seasons came and went, and went and 
came, 

To teach men gratitude ; and as they pass- 
ed. 

Gave warning of the lapse of time, that 
else 

Had stolen unheeded by. The gentle 
flowers 

Retired, and stooping o'er the wilderness, 

Talked of humility, and peace, and love; 

The dews came down unseen at evening- 
tide. 

And silently their bounties shed, to teach 

Mankind unostentadous charity. 

While arm-in-arm the forest rose on high, 



66 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And lesson gave of brotherly regard, 
And on the rugged mountain-brow ex- 
posed, 
Bearing the blast alone, the ancient oak 
Stood, lifting high his mighty arm, and 

still, 
To encourage in distress, exhorted loud 
The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, 

the breeze. 
Attuned the heart to melody and love. 
Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that 

■wept 
Essential love! and from her glorious bow, 
Bending to kiss the earth in token of 

peace, 
With her own, lips, her gracious lips, which 

God 
Of sweetest accent made, she whispered 

still, 
She whispered to Revenge, " Forgive! for- 
give! " 
The sun, rejoicing, round the earth an- 
nounced 
Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God. 
The moon awoke, and from her maiden 

face 
Shedding her cloudy locks, looked meekly 

forth. 
And with her virgin stars walked in the 

heavens. 
Walked nightl_\' thci-e, conversing as she 

walked 
Of purit}', and holiness, and God. 
In dreams and visions, sleep instructed 

much. 
Day uttered speech to day, and night to 

night 
Taught knowledge. Silence had a tongue; 

the grave. 
The darkness, and the lonely waste, had 

each 
A torigue that ever said, "Man! think of 

God ! 
Think of Thyself! think of eternity ! " 
"Fear God !" the thunder said — "Fear 

God ! " the waves; 
" Fear God ! " the lightning of the storm 

replied ; 



" Fear God! " deep loudly answered back to 

deep ; 1 

And in the temples of the Holy One, ' 

Messiah's messengers, the faithful few, 
Faithful 'mong many false, the Bible open- 
ed. 
And cried, "Repent! repent! ve sons of 
men ! " 

Robert Pollok. 



CLEON AND I. 

Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one 

have I ; 
Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I: 
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I ; 
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and 

not I. 

Cleon, true possesseth acres, but the land- 
scape I ; 

Half the charms to me it yiekieth money 
cannot buy. 

Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshen- 
ing vigor I ; 

Hi' in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I. 

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought 

am I; 
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none 

have I ; 
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon 

fears to die; 
Death may come, he'll lind me ready, — 

happier man am I. 

Cleon sees no charms in natiu^e, in a daisy I. 

Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea 
and sky ; 

Nature sings to me tbrever, earnest listen- 
er I; 

State for state, with all attendants, who 
would change.'' Not I. 

Charles Mackay. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 67 


TO THE FUTURE. 


Looks, and is dunil) with awe; 




The eternal law 


O, Land of Promise! from what Pis- 


Which makes the crime its own blind- 


1 gah's height 


fold redresser. 


Can I behold thy stretch of peace- 


Shadows his heart with perilous fore- 


ful bowers? 


boding, 


Thy golden harvests flowingout of sight, 


And he can see the grim -eyed 


Thy nestled homes and sun-illumin- 


Doom 


ed towers? 


From out the trembling gloom 


'Gazing upon the sunset's high-heap'd 


Its silent-footed steeds toward his palace 


gold, 


goading. 


Its crags of opal and of crysolite, 




Its deeps on deeps of glory that unfold 


What promises hast thou for Poet's eyes, 


Still brightening abysses. 


Aweary of the turmoil and the 


And blazing precipices, 


wrong! 


Whence but a scanty leap it seems to 


To all their hopes what overjoy'd re- 


heaven. 


plies! 


Sometimes a glimpse is given. 


What undream'd ecstasies for bliss- 


Of thy more gorgeous realm, thy more un- 


ful song 


stinted bliSses. 


Thy happy plains no war-trumps brawl- 




ing clangor 


O, Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf 


Disturbs, and fools the poor to hate 


Of the perturbed Present rolls and 


the poor; 


sleeps; 


The humble glares not on the high with 


Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy 


anger; 


turf 


Love leaves no grudge at less, no 


And lure out blossoms: to thy 


greed for more; 


bosom leaps 


In vain strives self the godlike sense to 


As to a mother's, the o'er-wearied heart. 


smother ; 


Hearing far off and dim the toiling mart 


From the soul's deeps 


The hurrying feet, the curses without 


It throbs and leaps ; 


number, 


The noble 'neath foul rags beholds his long 


And, circled with the glow Elysian, 


lost brother. 


Of thine exulting vision. 




Out of its very cares wooes charms for 


To thee the Martyr looketh, and his fires 


peace and slumber. 


Unlock their fangs and leave his 




spirit free; 


To thee the Earth lifts up her fetter'd 


To thee the Poet 'mid his toil aspires, 


hands 


And grief and hunger climb about 


And cries for vengeance, with a pity- 


his knee 


ing smile 


Welcome as children : thou upholdest 


Thou blessest her, and she forgets her 


The lone Inventor by his demon 


bands. 


haunted; 


And her old wo- worn face a little 


The Prophet cries to thee when hearts 


while 


are coldest, 


Grows young and noble; unto thee the 


And, gazing o'er the midnight's 


Oppressor 


bleak abyss, 



68 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Sees the drowsed soul awaken at 
thy kiss, 
And stretch its happy arms and" leap up 
disenchanted. 



Thou bringest vengeance, but so loving- 
kindly 
The guilty thinks it pit} ; taught by 
thee 
Fierce tyrants drop the scourges where- 
with blindly 
Their own souls they were scarring; 
conquerors see 
With horror in their hands the accursed 
spear 
That tore the meek One's side on 
Calvary, 
And from their trophies shrink with 
ghastly fear; 
Thou, too, art the Forgiver, 
The beauty of man's soul to man \-<-. 

vealing ; 
The arrows from thy quiver 
Pierce error's guilty heart, but only pierce 
for healing. 



O, whither, whither, glory - winged 
dreams. 
From out Life's sweat and turmoil 
would ve bear me? 
Shut, gates of Fancy, on your golden 
gleams, 
This agony of hopeless contrast 
spare me! 
Fade, cheating glow, and leave me to my 
night! 
He is a coward who would bor- 
row 
A charm against the present sor- 
row 
From the vague Future's promise of de- 
light : 

As life's alarums nearer roll. 
The ancestral buckler calls. 
Self-clanging, from the walls. 
In the high temple of the soul ; 



Where are most sorrows, there the poet's 
sphere is. 

To feed the soul with patience, 
To heal its desolations 
With words of unshorn truth, with love 
that never wearies. 

James Russell Lowell. 



PLEASURE-PAIN. 

"Das Vergfmig^en ist Nichts als fin hochst ange- 
nehmer Schmerz." — Heinrich Heine. 



Full of beautiful blossoms 
Stood the tree in early May : 

Came a chilly gale from the sunset, 
And blew the blossoms away, — 

Scattered them through the garden, 

Tossed them into the mere ; 
The sad tree moaned and shuddered, 
"Alas! the fall is here." 

But all through the glowing summer 
The blossomless tree throve fair. 

And the fruit waxed ripe and mellow. 
With sunn3' rain and air ; 

And when the dim October 

With golden death was crowned, 

Under its heavy branches 

The tree stooped to the ground. 

In youth there comes a west wind. 
Blowing our bloom aw'ay, — 

A chilly breath of Autumn 
Out of the lips of May. 

We bear the ripe fruit after, — 
Ah, me! for the thought of pain! 

We know the sweetness and beauty 
And the heart-bloom never again. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



69 



One sails away to sea, — 

One stands on the shore and cries; 
The ship goes down the world, and the 
light 

On tlie sullen water dies. 

The whispering shell is mute, — 

And after is evil cheer : 
She shall stand on the shore and cry in 
vain, 

Many and many a year. 

But the stately, wide-winged ship 
Lies wrecked on the unknown deep; 

Far under, dead in his coral bed, 
The lover lies asleep. 



In the wainscot ticks the death-watch, 
Chirps the cricket on the floor, 

In the distance dogs are barking, 
Feet go by outside my door. 

From her window honeysuckles 
Stealing in upon the gloom. 

Spice and sweets embalm the silence 
Dead within the lonesome room. 

And the ghost of that dead silence 
Haunts me ever, thin and chill, 

In the pauses of the death-watch. 
When the cricket's crv is still. 



She stands in silks of purple, 
Like a splenaid flower in bloom, 

Slie moves, and the air is laden 
With delicate perfume. 

The over-vigilant mamma 

Can never let her be : 
She must play this march for another. 

And sing that song fjr me. 

I wonder if she remembers 
The song I made for her : 



" The hopes of love are frailer 
Than liiies of gossamer: " 

Made when we strolled together 
Through fields of happy June, 

And our hearts kept time together, 
With birds and brooks in tune, — 

And I was so glad ot loving, 

That I must mimic grief. 
And, trusting in love forever, 

Must fable unbelief. 

I did not hear the prelude, — 

I was thinking of these old things. 

She is fairer and wiser and older 
Than What is it she sings .> 

" The hopes of love are frailer 

Than lines of gossamery^ 
Alas! the bitter wisdom 

Of the song I made for her I 



All the long August afternoon. 

The little drowsy stream 
Whispers a melancholy tune. 
As if it dreamed of June 

And whispered in its dream. 

The thistles show beyond the brook 
Dust on their down and bloom. 

And out of many a weed-grown nook 

The aster-flowers look 

With eyes of tender gloom. 

The silent orchard aisles are sweet 
With smell of ripening fruit 

Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, 

Flutter, at coming feet. 

The robins strange and mute. 

There is no wind to stir the leaves, 
The harsh leaves overhead ; 

Only the querulous cricket grieves. 

And shrilling locust weaves 
A song of summer dead. 

William Deaxs Howell. 



7 

70 ILLUSTRATED 


1 
HOME BOOK 


BRIG HOVE TO FOR A PILOT. 


THE SUNFLOWER. 


The weary voyage is over, 
The pilot's boat is near; 


Till the slow daylight pale, 
A willing slave, fast bound to one above. 


And over the bulwarks to leeward, 


I wait; he seems to speed, and change and 


Lies the land of all lands most dear. 


fail; 




I know he will not move. 


I see through the mists of the morning, 


I lift my golden orb 


Steeple and tower and dome, 


To his, unsmitten when the roses die. 


And it seems to my weary spirit as if 


And in my broad and burning disc absorb 


They stood waiting to welcome me home. 


The splendors of his eye. , 


I long to clasp hands with my comrades. 
My comrades so true and brave ; 


His eye is like a clear 
Keen flame that searches through me; 


And I long to spend one quiet hour, 
By my little daughter's grave. 


I must droop 
Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere; 
To mine he cannot stoop. 


The days of old come back to me, 


I win not my desire, 


As we wait in the offing here; 


And yet I fail not of my guerdon; lo! 


Thank God the long voyage is over, 


A thousand flickering darts and tongues of 


And the pilot's boat is near. 


fire 




Around me spread and glow; 


The brothers I left behind me 
Have grown tall bearded men, 
They'll bring their daughters to welcome 
me 


All rayed and crowned, I miss 
No queenly stalk until the summer wane, 
The hours flit by; none knoweth of my 


To the dear ojd home again. 


bliss 
And none has guessed iny pain; 


We shall walk thro' the golden meadows 


I follow one alone, 


And by the gypsies' bower 


I track the shadows of his steps, I grow 


Where flow the Trent's broad waters 


Most like to him I love 


Fast by the castle tower. 


Of all that shines below. 


, 


Dora Greenwell. 


We shall talk of the dead and the living 




Till the past will seem like a dream 




And the Wilford bells will chime again 


THE LIFE OF MAN. 


And the willows bend in the stream. 


Our life is nothing but a winter's day; 




Some only break their fast, and so, away: 


The weary voyage is ended, 


Others stay dinner, and depart full fed; 


Let a loud and lofty cheer. 


The longest age but sups and goes to bed: 


Roll over the bulwarks to landward 


He's most in debt that lingers out the day; 


For the pilot's boat is near. 


Who dies betimes, has less; and less to pay. 


Elmo. 


Francis Quarles. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



71 



THE HEART'S ANCHOR. 

Think of mc as your friend I praj-, 

And call me by a loving name: 
I will not care what others say, 

If only you remain the same. 
I will not care how dark the night, 

I will not care how wild the storm, 
Your love will fill my heart with light 

And shield mc close and keep me warm. 

Think of me as your friend, I pray. 

For else my life is little worth: 
So shall your memory light my way. 

Although we meet no more on earth. 
For while I know your faith secure, 

I ask no happier fate to see : 
Thus to be loved by one so pure 

Is honor rich enough for me. 

William Winter. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 

Whither, midst falling dew. 
While glow the heavens with the last steps 

of day , 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
pursue. 
Thy solitary way.' 
Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 

wrong. 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river Avide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chated ocean-side.' 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 



All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stop not, weary, to the welcome land. 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 

rest. 
And scream among thy tellows; reeds shall 
bend, 
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy tbrm; yet on my 

heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart: 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy cer- 
tain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone. 

Will lead my steps aright 

William Cullen Bryant;, 



THE PICKET-GUARD. 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

'• Except now and then a stray ]:)icket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro. 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
'T is nothing: a private or two, now and 
then. 

Will not count in the news of the battle; 
Not an oflicer lost, — only one of the men, 

Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dream- 
ing; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn 
moon. 
Or the light of the watch-fires, are 
gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
Through the forest leaves softly is creep- 



72 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



While stars up above, with their glittering 
eyes, 
Keep guard, — for the armj is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's 
tread 
As he tramps from the rock to the 
fountain, 
And he thinks of the two in the low 
trundle-bed. 
Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack; his face, dark and 
grim, 
Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children 
asleep, 
For their mother, — may heaven defend 
her! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly 
as then, 
That night when the love j-et unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips, — when low, mur- 
murmed vows 
Were pledged to be ever unbroken; 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his 
eyes. 
He dashes oft' tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place. 
As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted 
pine-tree, — 
The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad 
belt of light, 
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled 
the leaves.'' 
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing.' 
It looked like a rifle: " ha! Mary, good by !" 
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, — 
No sound save the rush of the river; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the 
dead, — 
The picket's oft' duty forever. 

Ethel Lynn Beers. 



SAINT BRANDAN. 

Saint Brandan sails the northern main ; 

The brotherhoods of saints are glad. 
He greets them once, he sails again; 

So late! — such storms! — The saint is 
mad ! 

He heard across the howling seas, 

Chime convent bells on wintry nights; 

He saw on spray-swept Hebrides, 
Twinkle the Monastery lights; 

But north, still north. Saint Brandan 
steered — 

And now, no bells, no convents more! 
The trembling Polar lights are neared. 

The sea without a human shore. 

At last — (it was the Christmas night; 

Stars shone after a day of storm) — 
He sees float past an iceberg white, 

And on it — Christ! — a living form. 

That furtive mien, tliat scowling eye, 

Of hair that red and tufted fell- 
It is — oh! where shall Brandan fly.? — 
The traitor Judas, out of hell! 

Palid with terror, Brandan sate; 

The moon was bright, the iceberg near. 
He hears a voice sigh humbly : " Wait! 

By high permission I am here. 

" One moment wait, thou holv man! 

On earth my crime, my death they 
knew; 
My name is under all men's ban — 

Ah! tell them of my respite too; 

" Once in the street a leper sate. 
Shivering with fever, naked, old; 

Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, 
The hot wind fevered him fivefold. 

" He gazed upon me as I passed. 

And murmured : Help me or I die! — 

To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, 
Saw him look eased, and hurried by. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



73 



*' Oh ! Brandan think what grace divine, 
What blessing must full goodness 
shower, 

When fragment of it small, like mine, 
Hath such inestimable power. 

•"Well-clothed, well-fed, well-friended, I 
Did that chance act of good, that one! 

Then went my way to kill, and lie 
Forgot my good as soon as done. 

^' Tell them one blessed Christmas night — 

(It was the first after I came 
Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite. 

To rue my guilt in endless flame) — 

*' I felt as I in torment lay 

' Mid the souls plagued by heavenly 
power, 
An angel touch my arm, and say: 

Go hence and cool thyself an hour ! 

" Ah! whence this mercy, Lord? I said. 

Tlir leper recollect., said he. 
Who asked the passers by J or aid, 
In Joppa, and thy charity. 

*' Then I remembered how I went, 
Jn Joppa through the public street, 

•One morn when the Sirocco spent. 
The storms of dust with burning heat. 

■*' That germ of kindness in the woinb 
Of mercy caught, did not expire; 

'Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom, 
And friends me in this pit of fire. 

*' Once every year when carols wake 
On earth the Christmas night's repose, 

Arising from the sinners lake, 
I journey to these healing snows. 

" I staunch with ice my burning breast. 
With silence balm my whirling brain. 

O, Brandan ! To this hour of rest 
That Joppan leper's ease was pain." 



Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes ; 

He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer, 
Then looked, and lo, the frosty skies ! 

The iceberg, and no Judas there! 

Matthew Arnold. 



GATHER THE ROSEBUDS WHILE 
YE MAY. 

Gather the rosebuds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a tiying; 
And this same flower that smiles to day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a getting. 
The sooner will his race be run. 

And nearer he's to setting. 

The age is best which is the first, 

When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time. 
And, while ye may, go marry ; 

For having lost but once your prime. 
You may forever tarry. 

Robert Herrick. 



THE PEOPLE'S SONG OF PEACE. 

FROM THE "SOXG OF THE CENTENNIAL." 

The grass is green on Bunker Hill, 
The waters sweet in Brandy wine; 

The sword sleeps in the scabbard still. 
The farmer keeps his flock and vine; 

Then who would mar the scene to-day 

With vaunt of battle-field or fray.** 

The brave corn lifts in regiments 
Ten thousand sabres in the sun ; 

The ricks replace the battle-tents, 
The bannered tassels toss and run. 



74 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



The neighing steed, the bugle's blast, 
These be but stories of the past. 

The earth has healed her wounded breast, 
The cannons plow tlie field no more; 

The heroes rest ! O, let them rest 
In peace along the peaceful shore! 

They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; 

They sleep in peace and all is well. 

The fields forget the battles fought. 
The trenches wave in golden grain: 

Shall we neglect the lessons taught. 
And tear the wounds agape again? 

Sweet Mother Nature, nurse the land. 

And heal her wounds with gentle hand. 

Lo! peace on earth. Lo! flock and fold, 
Lo! rich abundance, fat increase, 

And valleys clad in sheen of gold. 
O, rise and sing a song of peace! 

For Theseus roams the land no more. 

And Janus j^ests with rusted door. 

Joaquin Miller. 



WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town. 
Up stairs and doon stairs, m his nicht-gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, ciyin' at the lock, 
" Are the weans in their bed.'' — for it's now 
ten o'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie! are yc comin' ben.' 
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' 

hen. 
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna 

gie a cheep; 
But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna 

fa' asleep. 

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue: — glow'rin' 

like the moon, 
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' 

like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' 

sleepin' folk ! 



Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! 
Waumblin' aft" a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her 

thrums: 
Hey, Willie Winkie! — see, there he comes! 

Wearie is the mither tliat has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his- 

lane. 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, before he'll 

close an ee; 
But a kiss frae aft" his rosy lips gies strength 

anew to me. 

William Miller. 



SATAN IN COUNCIL. 

Thus Satan talking to his nearest mate 
With head up-lifl above the wave, and eyes. 
That sparkling blazed, his other parts be- 
sides 
Prone on the flood, extended long and 

large 
Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
As whom the fables name of monstrous- 
size, 
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warr'd on 

Jove, 
Briareos or Typhon, whom the den 
By ancient Tarsus held, or that sea-beast 
Leviathan, which God of all his works 
Created hugest thit swim tlie ocean 

stream : 
Him haply slumbering on the Norway 

foam 
The pilot of some small night- founder'd 

skiff 
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 
With fixed anchor in his scal\- rind 
Moors by his side under the lee while 

night 
Invests the sea, and the wished morn de- 
lays ; 
So stretch'd out huge in length the Arch- 

Fiend lay 
Chained on the burning lake, nor ever 
thence 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



75 



Had risen or heaved his head, but that the 

•will 
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven 
Left him at large to his own dark, designs, 
That with reiterated crimes he might 
Heap on himself damnation, while he 

sought 
Evil to others, and enraged might see 
How all his malice served but to bring 

forth 
Infinite goodness, grace and mercy shown 
On Man by him seduced, but on himself 
Treble confusion, wrath and vengeance 

pour'd. 
Forthwith upright he rears from off the 

pool 
His mighty stature; on each hand the 

flames 
Driven backwark slope their pointing 

spires, and roll'd 
In billows, leave i' th' midst a horrid vale, 
Then with expanded wings he steers his 

flight 
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air 
That felt unusual weight till on Ary land 
He lights, if it were land that ever burn'd 
With solid, as the lake with liquid iire; 
And such appear'd in hue as when the 

force 
Of subteranean wind transports a hill 
Torn from Pelorus, or the shatter'd side 
Of thundering ^tna, whose combustible 
And fuel'd entrails thence conceivins^fire, 
Sublimed with mineral fury, aid thewind>., 
And leave a singed bottom all involved 
With stench and smoke; such resting 

found the sole 
Of unblest feet. Him follow'd his next 

mate. 
Both glorying to have 'scaped the Stygian 

flood 
As Gods, and by their own recover'd 

strength, 
Not by the sufferance of supernal Power. 
Is this the region, this the soil, the clime. 
Said then the lost Arch-Angel this the 
seat 

That we must change for heaven, this 

mournful gloom I 



For that celestial light.? Be it so, since he 
Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid 
What shall be right: farthest from him is 

best. 
Whom reason hath equal'd, force hath 

made supreme 
Above his equals. Farewell happy fields. 
Where joy forever dwells: hail horrors, 

haii 
Infernal world, and thou profoundest hell 
Receive thy new possessor; one who 

brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or 

time. 
The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of 

heaven. 
What matter where, if I be still the same, 
And what I should be, all but less than he 
Whom thunder hath made greater.? Here 

at least 
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not 

built 
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: 
Here we may reign secure, and in my 

choice 
To reign is worth ambition though in hell: 
Better to reign in hell than serve in 

heaven. 
But wherefore let we then our faithful 

friends. 
The associates and co-partners of our loss. 
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool. 
And call them not to share with us their 

part 
In this unhappy mansion, or once more 
With rallied arms to try what may be yet 
Regain'd in heaven, or what more lost in 
hell.? 

John Milton. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he; 
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all 
three ; 



76 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



" Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate- 
bolts undrew, 

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping 
through. 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to 
rest. 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the 

great pace, — 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 

changing our place ; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths 

tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup and set the 

pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker 

the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas a moonsetat starting, but while we 

drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight 

dawned clear; 
At Boom a great yellow star came out to 

see; 
At Dufteld 'twas morning as plain as could 

be; 
Andfroin Mecheln church-steeple we heard 

the half-chime, — 
So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is 

time !" 

At Aerschot up leaned of a sudden the sun. 
And against him tiie cattle stood black 

every one. 
To stare tiirough the mist at us galloping 

past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff" river lieadland its 

spray ; 

And his low head and creast, just one sharp 

ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on 

his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever 

that glance 



O'er its white edge at me, his own master, 

askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume flakes, which 

aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried 

Joris, "Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not 

in her; 
We'll remember at Aix," — for one heard the 

quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and 

staggering knees. 
And sunk tail and horrible heave of the 

flank. 
As down on her haunches she shuddered 

and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in 

the sky ; 
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless 

laugh , 
'Neath our feet] broke the brittle, bright 

stubble like chaff"; 
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 

white. 
And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is 

in sight!" 

" How they'll greet us!" — and all in a mo- 
ment his roan 

Roll"! neck and croup over, lay dead as a 
stone, 

And there was my Roland to bear the whole 
weight 

Of the news which alone could save Aix 
from her fate. 

With his nostrils like pits of blood full to 
the brim. 

And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' 
rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster 

let fall. 
Shook otY both my jack-boots, let go belt 

and all. 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his 

ear, 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



77 



Called my Roland his pet name, my horse 

without peer, — 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any 

noise, bad or good. 
Till at length into Aix, Roland galloped 

and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flocking 
round. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on 
the ground ; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland 
of mine. 

As I poured down his throat our last meas- 
ure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common 
consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought 
good news from Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 



SHE'S GANE TO DWELL 
HEAVEN. 



IN 



She's gane to dwell in Heaven, mj lassie, 
She's gane to dwell in Heaven ; 

Ye're ow^er pure, quo' the voice o' God 
For dwelling out o' heaven ! 

Oh! what'll she do in Heaven, my lassie.' 
Oil! what'll she do in heaven.' 

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' 
sangs 
And make them more meet for heaven. 

She was beloved by a' mv lassie, 

She was beloved by a'; 
But an angel fell in love wi' her 

An' took her away frae us a'. 

Low there thou lies my lassie, 

Low there thou lies; 
A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird 

Nor frae it will arise ! 

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, 
Fu' soon I'll follow thee; 



Thou left me nought to covet ahin'. 
But took goodness' sel' wi' thee. 

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
I looked on thy death-cold face ; 

Thou seemed a lily new-cut i' the bud 
An' fading in its place. 

I looked on thy death shut eye, my lassie, 
I looked on thy death-shut eye. 

An' a lovlier light in the brow of heaven 
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy. 

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie. 
Thy lips were ruddy and calm; 

But gane was the holy breath of heaven 
That sang the evening Psalm. 

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, 
There's naught but dust now mine; 

My Saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave. 
An' why should I stay behin'! 

Allan Cunningham. 



DINNA ASK ME. 

O, DINNA ask me gin I lo'e ye : 

Troth, I daurna tell! 
Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye, — 

Ask it o' yoursel'. 

O, dinna look sae sair at me, 

For weel ye ken me true ; 
O, gin ye look sae sair at me, 

I daurna look at you. 

W ntii ye gang to yon braw braw town, 

And bonnier lassies see, 
O, dinna Jamie, look at them. 

Lest ye should mind na me. 

For I could never bide the lass 
That ye'd lo'e mair than me; 

And O, I'm sure my heart wad brak. 
Gin ye'd prove fause to me I 

DUNLOP. 



78 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE LOST GARDEN. 

There was a fair green garden sloping 

From the southeast side of a mountain 
ledge; 

And the earliest tints of the dawn came 
groping 

Down through its paths from the daj's 
dim edge, 

The bluest skies and the reddest roses 

Arched and varied its velvet sod ; 

And the glad birds sang as the soul sup- 
poses 

The angels sing on the hills of God. 



I wandered there when my voice seemed 

bursting 
With life's rare rapture and keen delight; 
And yet in my heart was a constant thu-st- 

ing 
For something over the mountain height. 
I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory 
That turned to crimson the peaks of snow ; 
And the winds from the west all breathed 

a story 
Of realms and regions I longed to know. 

I saw on the garden's south side growing 
The brightest blossoms that breathe of 

June; 
I saw in the east how the sun was glow- 
ing, 
And the gold air shook with a wild bird's 

tune; 
I heard the drip of a silver fountain, 
And the pulse of a young heart throbbed 

with glee; 
But still I looked out over the mountain 
Where unnamed wonders awaited me. 

I came at last to the western gateway 

That led to the path that I wanted to climb ; 

But a shadow fell on my spirit straight- 
way, 

For close at my side stood graybeard 
Time. 



I paused with feet that were fain to linger 

Hard by that garden's golden gate ; 

But Time spoke, pointing with one stern 

finger: 
"Pass on," he said, "for the day grows 

late." 

And now on the chill g'-ay cliffs I wander;. 

The heights recede which 1 thought to 
find, 

And the light seems dim on the mountain 
yonder 

When I think of the garden I left behmd. 

Should I stand at last on its summit 
splendor, 

I know full well it would not repay 

For the fair lost tints of the dawn so ten- 
der 

That crept over the edge o' day. 

I would go back but the ways are winding,. 
If ways there are to that land in sooth; 
For what man ever succeeds in finding 
A path to the garden of his lost youth .^ 
But I think sometimes when the June stars 

glisten, 
That a rose- scent drifts from far awa}-; 
And I know, when I lean from the cliffs 

and listen, 
That a young laugh breaks on the air like 

spray . 

Ella Wheeler. 



WHAT WHX IT MATTER.? 

If life awake and will never cease 

On the future's distant shore. 
And the rose of love and the lily of peace 

Shall bloom there forevermore, — 
Let the world go round and round, 

And the sun sink into the sea, 
For whether i'm on or under the ground 

Oh, what will it matter to me.? 

Dr. J. G. Holland.. 



OF POETRT- AND SONG. 



79 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 

Ye genii of the nation, 
Who look with veneration, 
And Ireland's desolation onsaysinglj de- 
plore, 
Ye sons of Gineral Jackson, 
Who thrample on the Saxon, 
Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon 
shore. 

When William, Duke of Schumbug, 
A tyrant and a humbug. 
With cannon and with thunder on our city 
bore. 
Our fortitude and valliance 
Insthructed his battalions, 
To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon 
shore. 

Since that capitulation, 

No city in the nation 
So grand a reputation could boast before, 

As Limerick prodigious. 

That stands with quays and bridges. 
And ships up to the windies of the Shannon 
shore. 

A chief of ancient line, 
'T is William Smith O'Brine, 
Riprisints this darling Limerick this ten 
years or more ; 
Oh the Saxons can 't endure 
To see him on the flure, 
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon 
shore! 

This valiant son of Mars 
Had been to visit Par's, 
That land of revolution, that grows the tri- 
color; 
And to welcome his return 
From pilgrimages furren. 
We invited him to tay on the Shannon 
shore. 

Then we summoned to our board 
Young Meagher of the sword; 



'T is he will sheathe that.battle-axe in Saxon 
gore; 
And Mitchil of Belfast 
We bade to our repast. 
To dthrink a dish of coflee on the Shannon 
shore. 

Convaniently to hould 
These patriots so bould. 
We took the opportunity of Tim Doolan's 
store ; 
And with ornamints and banners 
(As becomes gintale good manners) 
We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shan- 
non shore. 

'T would binifit your sowls 
To see the butthered rowls. 
The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and 
craim gaylore. 
And the muffins and the crumpets, 
And the band of harps and thrumpets, 
To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon 
shore. 

Sure the imperor of Bohay 
Would be proud to dthrink the tay 
- That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine 
did pour; 
And, since the days of Strongbow, 
There never was such Congo — 
Mitcliil dthrank s-ix quarts of it — by Shan- 
non shore. 

But Clarndon and Corry 
Connellan beheld this sworry 
With rage and imulation in their black 
heart's core ; 
And they hired a gang of ruffins 
To interrupt the muffins. 
And the fragrance of the Congo on the 
Shannon shore. 

When full of tay and cake, 
O'Brine began to spake, 
But I'uice a one could hear him, for a sud- 
den roar 
Of a ragamuffin rout 
Began to yell and shout. 
And frighten the propriety of Shannon 
shore. 



80 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



As Smith O'Brien harangued, 
They batthered and they banged ; 
Tim Doolan's doors and windies down thev 
tore ; 
They smashed the lovely windies 
(Hung with muslin from the Indies), 
Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon 
shore. 

With throwing of brickbats, 
Drowned puppies and dead rats, 
These ruffin democrats themselves did 
lower ; 
Tin kettles, rotten eggs. 
Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, 
They flung among the patriots of Shannon 
shore. 

Oh, the girls began to scrame. 
And upset the milk and crame; 
And the honorable jintlemin they cursed 
and swore : 
And Mitchil of Belfast, 
'Twas he that looked aghast. 
When they roasted him in efligy by Shan- 
non shore. 

Oh, the lovely tay was spilt 
On that day of Ireland's guilt; 
Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, 
where 's the back door.'' 
'Tis a national disgrace; 
Let me go and veil me face! " 
And he boulted with quick pace from the 
Shannon shore. 

" Cut down the bloddy horde! " 
Says Meagher of the sword, 
" This conduct would disgrace any blacka- 
moor ;" 
But millions were arrayed, 
So he shaythed his battle-blade, 
Rethrayting undismayed from the Shannon 
shore. 

Immortal Smith O'Brine 
Was raging like a line; 
'T would have done your sowl good to have 
heard him roar; 



In his glory he arose, 
And he rushed upon his foes, 
But they hit him on the nose by the Shan- 
non shore. 



Then the futt and the dthragoons 
In squadthrons and platoons, 
With their music playing chunes, down 
upon us bore ; 
And they bate the rattatoo, 
And the Peelers came in view, 
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon 
shore. 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 



THE IVY-MAIDEN. 

Your face, sweet Constance, and sui-. 
roundings — 

The ivy-wreath that rings you round — 
Give full excuse for wild heart-boundings 

And voice more tremulous in sound. 
But Ivy's maidens " weep and ring," 

And you love best to laugh and tease; 
Methinks some meaning inarks the thing— 

Ay, ivy means " intent to please." 

But, dearest, at this fatal juncture, 

I own, as empty is my purse 
As bladder suffering from a puncture; 

So, as for better or for worse 
I can take no one — or, believe me, 

I 'd risk mv chance of winning you — 
Say, child, will you as friend receive me. 

Your garland speaks of friendship true! 

What! tears in those blue eyes indignant, 

And quivering in those laughing lips.^ 
Was then my proffer so malignant! 

Ah, well, the blind boy often trips! 
Suppose this New Year saw a twining 

Of bridal wreaths for you and me, 
I think 'twould know of no repining: 

Green ivy means " Fidelity." 





or\)jellltoO)}) onmxij-m^ 



Ip)) b\ l^erool^ offeree! treef ^ 

^t^\i}t^mt ^olben ^oaimer^ bier 
t^At \)mxl \ To)) birt^ite only f loiuri^ 



<> 



"d dxeel tbee in (be inamoTW vot ' 




^^\iv\ov-. 



^ ':wJ 









OF POETRT AND SONG. 



83 



O sweet New Year! O sweet beginning 

Of strange new life to either soul ! 
O sudden start, triumphant winning, 

The start of life, and yet its goal! 
Sweet Constance, with thine ivy-wreathing. 

Be to thine own surroundings true; 
Nay, blush not at this whisper'd breathing 

That ivy tells of marriage too! 

B. MONTGOMERIE RANKING. 



MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE 
BALL 

GIVEN TO THE NEl'AULESE AMBASSADOR 

BY THE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL 

COMPANY. 

Oh will ye choose to hear the news.-* 

Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er: 
I'll tell you all about the ball 

To the Naypaulase ambassador. 
Begor! this fete all balls does bate 

At which I worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 

Of th' Oriental company. 

These men of sinse dispoised expinse, 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
"We '11 show the blacks," says they, " Al- 
mack's. 

And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up. 
And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls. 

With roses and with lilies up. 
And Jullien's band it tuck its stand. 

So sweetly in the middle there. 
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes. 

And violins did fiddle there. 
And when the coort was tired of spoort, 

I 'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
A nate buffet before them set. 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was! 

At ten, before the ball-room door 

His moighty excellency was; 
He sinoiled and bowed to all the crowd — 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 



His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 
Into the dooway followed him ; 

And oh the noise of the blackguard boys, 
As they hurrood and hollowed him! 

The noble chair stud at the stair, 

And bade the dthrums to thump; and he 
Did thus evince to that black prince 

The welcome of his company. 
Oh fair tlie girls, and rich the curls, 

And bright the oys you saw there was;, 
And fixed eacii oye, ye there could spoi, 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther was! 

This gineral great then tuck his sate, 

With all the other ginerals, 
(Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat. 

All bleezed with precious minerals;) 
And as he there, with princely air, 

Recloinin on his cushion was, 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin and the pushin was. 

O Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls. 

Such fashion and nobilitee! 
Just think of Tim, and fanfcy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentility! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty- 
geese 

Ministher and his lady there; 
And I reckonized, with much surprise, 

Our messmate. Bob O'Grady there. 

There was Baroness Brimow, that looked 
like Juno, 

And Baroness Rehausen there. 
And Countess Roullier, that looked pecu- 
. liar 

Well in her robes of gauze, in there. 
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him firs! 

When only Mr. Pips he was). 
And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, 
And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 

And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife — 
I wondther how he could stuff her in, 



84 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 
And seemed to ask how should / go there ; 

And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 
And the marchioness of Sligo there. 

Yes, jukes and earls., and diamonds and 
pearls, 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there 
And some beside (the rogues!) I spied 

Behind the windies, coorting there. 
Oh, there's one I know, bedad would show 

As beautiful as any there; 
And I 'd like to hear the pipers blow. 

And shake a fut with Fanny there! 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 



THEY COME! THE MERRY SUM- 
MER MONTHS. 

They come! the merry summer months of 
beauty, song, and flowers; 

They come! the gladsome months that 
bring thick leaflness to bowers. 

Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling 
cark and care aside ; 

.Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace- 
ful waters glide; 

Or, imderneath the shadow vast of patriar- 
chal tree. 

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky 
in rapt tranquillity. 

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful 

to the hand ; 
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze 

is sweet and bland ; 
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding 

courteously ; 
It >tirs their blood with kindest love, to 

bless and welcome thee; 
And mark how with thine own thin locks 

— thev now are silvery gray — 
That blissful breeze is Avantoning, and 

whispering, " Be gay ! " 

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean 
of yon sky 



But hath its own winged mariners to give 

it melody ; 
Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, 

all gleaming like red gold; 
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their 

merry course the\' hold. 
God bless them all, those little ones, who' 

far above this earth, 
Can make a scoft' of its mean joys, and 

\ent a noble mirth. 

But soft! mine ear vipcaught a sound, — 

from yonder wood it came! 
The spirit of the dim green glade did 

breathe his own glad name; — 
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart 

from all his kind, 
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the 

soft western wind; 
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,— his 

notes are void of art; 
But simplest strains do soonest sound the 

deep founts of the heart. 

Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for 

thought-crazed wight like me. 
To smell again those summer flowers 

beneath this summer tree! 
To suck once more in every breath their 

little souls, aw^ay. 
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of 

youth's bright simimer day, 
When, rushing forth, like untamed colt, 

the reckless truant boy 
Wandered through green Avoods all day 

long, a mighty heart of joy ! 

I 'm sadder now, — I have had cause ; but 

O, I 'm proud to think 
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore 

I yet delight to drink; — 
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, 

the calm, vmclouded sky, 
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in 

the days gone by 
When summer's loveliness and light fall 

round me dark and cold, 
I '11 bear indeed life's heaviest curse — a 

heart that hath waxed old ! 

William Motherwell. 







until it \is$ contented 



OF POETRr AND SO.VC;. 



THE PHANTOM. 

Again I sit within the mansion, 

In the old, familiar seat; 
And shade and sunshine chase each other 

O'er the carpet at m_v feet. 

But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled 
upwards 

In the summers that are past, 
And the willow trails its branches lower 

Than when 1 saw them last. 

They strive to shut the sunshine wholly 
From out the haunted room — 

To fill the house, that once was joyful. 
With silence and with gloom 

And many kind, remembered faces 

Within the doorway come — 
Voices, that wake the sweeter music 

Of one that now is dumb. 

They sing, in tones as glad as ever, 

The songs she loved to hear; 
They braid the rose in summer garlands. 

Whose flowers to her were dear. 

And still, her footsteps in the passage. 

Her blushes at the door, 
Her timid words of maiden welcome. 

Come back to me once more. 

And all forgetful of my sorrow. 

Unmindful of my pain, 
I think she has but newly left me. 

And soon will coine again. 

She stays without, perchance, a moment, 
To dress her dark-brown hair; 

I hear the rustle of her garments — 
Her light step on the stair! 

O fluttering heart! control thy tumult, 

Lest eyes profane should see 
My cheeks betray the rush of rapture 

Her coming brings to me! 



She tarries long: but lo! a whisper 

Beyond the open door — 
And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, 

A shadow on the floor! 

Ah ! 't is the whispering pine that calls me. 
The vine whose shadow strays ; 

And my patient heart must still await her, 
Nor chide her long delays. 

But my heart grows sick with weary wait- 
ing, 
As many a time before: 
Her foot is ever at the threshold. 
Yet never passes o'er. 

Bayard Taylor. 



A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 

£i reinigem cantus horiatur. 

QyiNTILIA.V. 

F'aintly as tolls the evening chime, 

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep 

time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
We '11 sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near and the daylight's past! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl : — 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But when the wind blows oflf the shore 
Oh! sweetly we '11 rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! 

Utawa's tide! this trembling moon 
Shall see us afloat over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers — 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! 
Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 
Thomas Moore. 



88 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE MINSTREL. 

" What voice, what harp, are tliose we hear 

Beyond the gate in chorus ? 
Go, page! — the lay delights our ear; 

We'll have it sung before us! " 
So speaks the king: the stripling flies — 
He soon returns; his master cries — 

" Bring in the hoary minstrel!" 

" Hail, princes mine! Hail, noble knights! 

All hail, enchanting dames! 
What starry heaven! What blinding lights! 

Whose tongue may tell their na?Ties? 
In this bright hall, amid this blaze. 
Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze 

On such stupendous glories ! " 

The minnesinger closed his eyes; 

He struck his mighty lyre : 
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs. 

And warriors felt on fire; 
The king, enraptured by the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 

Be given the bard in guerdon. 

" Not so! Reserve thy chain, thy gold. 
For those brave knights whose glances. 

Fierce flashing through the battle bold, 
Might shiver sharpest lances! 

Bestow it on thy treasurer there — 

The golden burden let him bear 
With other glittering burdens. 

" I sing as in the greenwood bush 
The cageless wild-bird carols — 

The tones that from the full heart gush 
Themselves are gold and laurels! 

Yet might I ask, then thus I ask — 

Let one bright cup of wine, in flask 
Of glowing gold, be brought me! " 

They set it down; he quaffs it all — 
"Oh! draught of richest flavor! 

Oh! thrice divinely happy hall 
Where that is scarce a favor! 

If heaven shall bless ye, think on me; 

And thank your God as I thank ye 
For this delicious wine-cup!" 

JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe. 
Translation of James Clarence Mangam. 



"YES!" 

Dear hiding-place, I pray you keep 

This secret in your breast; 
O, fold it sure and fold it fast, 

And let it safely rest! 
And let it rest and let it lie 

Till paling sky shall show 
Through pearly pallor softly gray 

The flush of morning's glow. 

For then — while dawn is still a dream, 

And all is hush'd and still — 
Some one will cross the dewy fields 

That spread below the hill; 
Will swiftly pass through flowering aisles, 

And crush the petals sweet — 
Dear hiding-place, I pray you lay 

M}'^ secret at his feet ! 

Ah, cold and lifeless seems the word 

My trembling hand has traced; 
He will not guess the thousand hopes 

That with that word are placed ! 
O, will he guess or will he know.'' 

Dear blossoms at my feet. 
Look up and whisper faint and low: 

I long his eyes to meet. 

Ah, happv letter, you will feel 

His touch so light and true! 
Ah, happv hand that draws you forth, 

I would that I were you ! 
I would and would not — lo\e and fear 

Make up so large a sum 
Within my foolish heart today, 

The heart that he has won. 

O, have I lived or have I loved 

In any years before.' 
For now I cannot dream of joy. 

Save with him evermore. 
I waste the days, the nights, the hours, 

In thoughts that come and go; 
And vet in all their circling flight. 

One name alone they know. 

O, lavish lights and floating shades, 

I would you were no more; 
Fly down and haunt the midnight glades. 

And tell me day is o'er! 




YES. 



OF POETRl- 


AND SONG. 91 


\ Dear ivj, keep mv secret safe; 


The angel wrote, and vanished. The next 


Like him you cannot guess 


night 


That life and love are centered here 


It came again, with a great wakening light. 


Where I have written — "Yes!" 


And showed the names whom love of God 




had blessed — 




And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the 
rest! 




LEAVES FROM FATHERLAND. 


Leigh Hunt. 


Ju.st a few crocus leaves, 




Purple and fair to see; 
And a dozen blades of grass, 


THE STEAMBOAT. 


Came to^me over the sea. 


See how yon flaming herald treads 


Purple, and amber and green, 

I ween thev were precious to me; 

For their colors blend to a bow of love, 
From dear ones I fain would see. 


The ridged and rolling wa\es. 
As, crashing o'er their crested heads, 

She bows her surly slaves! 
With foam before and fire behind, 

She rends the clinging sea. 


Only a few dry leaves, 


That flies before the roaring wind, 


But their colors will not die; 


Beneath her hissing lee. 


And their beauty smiles to mv verv heart. 




Under this western skj'. 


The morning sprav, like sea-born flowers 




With heaped and glistening bells, 


Elmo. 


Falls round her fast in ringing showers. 




With ever^ wave that swells; 
And, flaming o'er the midnight deep. 






In lurid fringes thrown. 


ABOU BEN ADHEM. 


The living gems of ocean sweep 
Along her flashing zone. 


Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of 

peace. 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom. 


With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, 
And smoking torch on high, 

When winds are loud, and billow^s reel, 
She thunders, foaming, by! 


An angel writing in a book of gold : 


When seas are silent and serene 


Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold 


With even beam she glides, 


And to the presence in the room he said, 


The sunshine glimmering through the i 


<' What writest thou.'"' — The vision raised 
its head. 


green 
That skirts her gleaming sides. 


And, with a look made of all sweet accord 




Answered — " The names of those who lo\ e 


Now, like a wild nymph, far apart 


the Lord." 


She views her shadowy form, 


■"And is mine one.^" said Abou; "Nay, 


The beating of her restless heart 


not so," 


Still sounding through the storm ; 


Replied the angel. — Abou spoke more low 


Now answers, like a courtly dame. 


But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, 


The reddening surges o'er. 


then, 


With flying scarf of spangled flame, 


Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 


The pharos of the shore. 









1 


















92 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 




To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, 


O, how or by what means may I contrive 






Who trims his narrowed sail ; 


To bring the hour that brings thee back 








To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep 


more near.' 








, Her broaa breast {^ the gale; 


How may I teach my drooping hope to live 








And many a foresail, scooped and strained, 


Until that blessed time, and thou art 








Shall break from yard and stay, 


here .' 








Before this smoky wreath hath stained 










The rising mist of day. 


I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold 
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 








Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud, 


In worthy deeds each moment that is told 








I see yon quivering mast — 


While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. 




♦ 




The black throat of the hunted cloud 

Is panting forth the blast! 
An hour, and, w,hirled like winnowing chaft' 

The giant surge shall fling 
His tresses o'er yon pennon-stafl", 

White as the sea-bird's wing! 


For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
All heavenward flights, all high and holy 
strains; 
For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently 
Through these long hours, nor call their 
minutes pains. 


if 






Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep! 








Nor wind nor wave shall tire 


I will this dreary blank of absence make 


'.M 






Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap 


A noble task-time, and will therein strive 








With floods of living fire; 


To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 


Jl 






Sleep on — and when the morning light 


More good than I have won since yet I 


i 






Streams o'er the shining bay. 


' li\e. 


1 






Oh, think of those for whom the night 




■ 






Shall never wake in day! 


So may this doomed time build up in me 




, 




Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


A thousand graces, which shall thus be 
thine: 
So may my love and longing hallowed be. 
And thy dear thought an influence di- 


% 










ABSENCE. 


vine. 

Fr.\nces Anne Kemble. 








What shall I do with all the days and 
hours 
















That m.ust be counted ere I see thy face.' 










How shall I charm the interval that lowers 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 








Between this time and that sweet time 










of grace.'' 


Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands: 








Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, — 


The smith — a mighty man is he. 








Weary with longing.' shall I flee away 


With large and sinewy hands; 








Into past days, and with some fond pretence 


And the muscles of his brawny arms ^ 








Cheat myself to forget the present day.' 


Are strong as iron bands. 








Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 


His hair is crisp, and black, and long; 








Of casting from me God's great gift of 


His face is like the tan, 








time.' 


His brow is wet with honest sweat — 








Shall I, these mists of jnemory locked 


He earns whate'er he can ; 








Avithin, 


And looks the whole world in the face. 








Leave and forget life's purposes sublime.' 


For he owes not any man. 
























ABSENCE. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



95 



Week in, week out, from morn till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow — 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children, coming home from school. 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks, that fly 

Like chart" from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 
He hears the parson pray and preach — 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise! 
He needs must think of her once more. 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing — 

Onward through life he goes; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close — 
Something attempted, something done. 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou has taught! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought — 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought! 
Henry W.\d.sworth Longfellow. 



VIRTUE. 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky ! 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
For thou must die. 



Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye! 
Thy root is ever in its grave — 

And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, tuU of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie! 
Thy music shows ye have your closes. 
And all must die. 

Onlv a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
But, thougn the whole world turn to coal 
Then chiefly lives. 

George Herbert. 



SONG. 



Rarely, rarely comest thou. 

Spirit of delight! 
Wherefore hast thou left me now 

Many a day and night.' 
Manv a weary night and day 
'Tis since thou art fled away. 

How sliall ever one like me 

Win thee back again.' 
With the joyous and the free 

Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
Spirit false! thou hast forgot 
All but those who heed thee not. 

As a lizard with the shade 

Of a trembling leaf. 
Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; 

Even the signs of grief 
Reproach thee, that thou art near. 
And reproach thou wilt not hear. 

Let me set my mournful ditty 

To a merry measure : 
Thou wilt never come for pity 

Thou wilt come for pleasure. 
Pity then will cut away 

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 

I love all that thou lovest, 

Spirit of delight! 
The fresh earth in new leaves drest, 



96 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And the starry night; 
Autumn evening, and the morn 
When the golden mists are born. 

I love snow, and all the forms 

Of the radiant frost; 
I love waves and winds and streams, 

Everything almost 
Which is nature's, and may be 
Untainted by man's misery. 

I love tranquil solitude. 

And such society 
As is quiet, wise, and good ; 

Between thee and me 
What difference.'' but thou dost possess 
The things I seek, not love them less. 

I love love, though he has wings. 

And like light can flee, 
But, above all other things. 

Spirit, 1 love thee: 
Thou art love and life! oh, come, 
Make once more my heart thy home! 
Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



A LOVE-DUET. 



Phaon suigs at Sunset. 

My lady, here 1 '11 linger, 

Conceal'd by clouds of night, 
Until the morning's linger 

Shall touch the day with light. 
When darkness round us closes. 

And silence strays with me. 
The dew from garden roses 

Shall weep sad tears for thee. 
The weary hours I '11 number 

When thou art lost to sight; 
But song shall soothe thy slumber: 

My lady-love, good night ! 



Phaon sings at Daivn. 
The lily-bells awaken. 

The rose no longer weeps, 
The nests are all forsaken ; 

But still my lady sleeps. 
Glad daytime gi\es its blessing, 

And blossoms intertwine. 
Thy window-ledge caressing 

With arms of eglantine. 
But still the hours I number; 

I sorrow for thy sake: 
Awaken from thy slumber, 

My lady-love, awake! 

Phaou sings at Sunrise. 
But hark! a footfall on the grass; 

It is her voice that greets the day. 
Wake, blossoms, let your mistress pass; 

My lady comes — make way, make way ! 

Sappho sings at Snndozvn. 
Farewell, glad sun, my heart is cold; 

Silence, ye birds, my love is dumb; 
Sleep, flow'rets, whilst my arms enfold 

His shadow — for he will not come.' 

Farewell, farewell ! see, I must die 
With fainting for the loss of thee. 

Lost love ! restore me with a sigh, 
And let thy kisses rain on me! 

My Phaon, 'tis our last farewell! 

Come back to me; I faint with pain! 
When we are parted none will tell 

Thy heart to win me back again. 

Farewell ! and when the ocean wide 
Hath parted us, as it must part. 

One sigh will draw me to thy side, 
One kiss will heal my broken heart. 
Clement W. Scott. 



ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE. 

Come listen to me, you gallants so free, 
All you that love mirth for to hear, 

And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, 
That lived in Nottinghamshire. 





nee [ RnoiD l>gt)^ll joMtyir ^ 
Ooetltiernouiilm^igr 



BuU^rilEwbilerroiiiTae 






M,.!)elpttieloloii5[orfj)ee 



a.^ ^'^r^ss^ 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



99 



As Robin Hood in the forest stood, 
All under the greenwood tree, 

Tliere he was aware of a brave young man, 
As tine as fine migiit be. 

The youngster was clad in scarlet red, 

In scarlet fine and gay ; 
And he did frisk it over the plain, 

And chaunted a roundelay. 

As Robin Hood next morning stood 

Amongst the leaves so gay. 
There did he espy the same young man 

Come drooping along the way. 

The scarlet he wore the day before 

It was clean cast away; 
And at every step he fetched a sigh, 

" Alas ! and a well-a-day ! " 

Then stepped forth brave Little John, 
And Midge, tlie miller's son; 

Which made the young man bend his bow. 
When as he see them come. 

"Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, 
" What is your will with me.' " 

*'You must come before our master straight 
Under yon greenwood tree." 

And when he came bold Robin before, 
Robin asked him courteously, 

*' O, hast thou any money to spare, 
For my merry men and me.' " 

" I have no money," the young man said, 
"But five shillings and a ring; 

And that I have kept this seven long years. 
To have at my wedding. 

" Yesterday I should have married a maid. 

But she was from me ta'en. 
And chosen to be an old knight's delight. 

Whereby my poor heart is slain." 

"What is thy name.'" then said Robin 
Hood, 
" Come tell me, without any fail." 
*' By the faith of my body," then said the 
young man, 
" My name it is Allen-a-Dale." 



"What wilt thou give me," said Robin 
Hood, 

"In ready gold or fee. 
To help thee to thy true love again. 

And deliver her unto thee.' " 

" I have no money," then quoth the young 
man, 

" No ready gold nor fee. 
But I will swear upon a book 

Thy true servant for to be." 

" How many miles is it to thy true love.' 
Come tell me without guile." 

" By the faith of my body," then said the 
young man, 
" It is but five little mile." 

Then Robin he hasted over the plain; 

He did neither stint nor lin. 
Until he came unto the church 

Where Allen should keep his weddin'. 

" What hast thou here.' " the bishop then 
said, 

" I prithee now tell unto me," 
" I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, 

" And the best in the north country." 

" Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop 
he said; 
" That music best pleaseth me." 
" You shall have no music," quoth Robin 
Hood, 
"Till the bride and the bridegroom I 
see." 

With that came in a wealthy knight, 
Which was both grave and old; 

And after him a finikin lass. 

Did shine like the glistering gold. 

" This is not a fit match," quoth Robin 
Hood, 

" That you do seem to make here; 
For since we are come into the church, 

The bride shall choose her own dear." 













■^MM ■ 












100 ILL US TEA TED 


HOME BOOK 


I 




Then Robin Hood put liis horn to his 


Not the glad sun, beloved. 






mouth, 


Bright though it beams; 


V 




And blew blasts two or three; 


Not the green earth, beloved, 


1 




When four-and-twenty yeomen bold, 


Silver with streams; 


'<: 




Came leaping over the lea. 




'f 




And when they came into the church-yard, 

Marching all in a row, 
The first man was Allen-a-Dale,1 

To give bold Robin his bow. 


Not the gay birds, beloved, 

Happy and free; 
Yet there's one thing, beloved. 

Fairer than thee. 


') 

1 




" This is thv true love," Robin he said, 
" Young Allen, as I hear say; 

And you shall be married this same time, 
Before we depart away." 


Not the clear day, beloved. 
Glowing with light; 

Not (fairer still beloved) , 
Star crowned night. 






" That shall not be," the bishop he cried. 


Truth, in her might, beloved. 






" For thy word shall not stand ; 


Grand in her sway ; 






They shall be three times asked into the 
church. 


Truth with her eyes, beloved. 
Clearer than day ; 






As the law is of our land." 


Holy and pure, beloved, 






Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat. 


Spotless and free. 






And put it upon Little John; 


Is the one thing, beloved, 






" By the faith of my body," the Robin said, 


Fairer than thee. 






" This cloth doth make thee a man." 








When Little John went into the quire, 

The people began to laugh ; 
He asked them seven times into church, . 

Lest three times should not be enough. 


Guard well thy soul, beloved, 
Truth dwelling there, 

Shall shadow forth, beloved, 
Her image rare. 


1 




"Who gives me this maid.^" said Little 


Then shall I deem, beloved, 
That thou art she ; 


1 




John, 
Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; 
And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, 
Full dearly he shall her buy." 


And there '11 be naught, beloved. 
Fairer than thee. 

Anonymous. 






And then having ended this merry wedding. 
The bride looked like a queen ; 














And so they returned to the merry green- 






■m 




wood, 


A MATCH. 




M 




Amongst the leaves so green. 






fl 




, Anonymous. 


If love were what the rose is, 

And I were like the leaf. 
Our lives would grow together 
In sad or singmg weather, 




1 




FAIRER THAN THEE. 




Fairer than thee, beloved, 


Blown fields and flowerful closes. 


^ 11 




Fairer than thee ; — 


Green pleasure or grey grief; 




1 




There is one thing, beloved, 


If love were what the rose is, 




1 




Fairer than thee. 


And I were like the leaf. 




J 








^ 










1 




TO THE DAISY. 
Bright flower ! whose home is everj where 
Bold in maternal nature's care. 
And all the year long through the heir 

Of joy or sorrow ; 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest through ! 

William Wordsworth. 



r 



OF POETRV AND SONG. 



103 



If I were w hat the words are, 

And love were like the tune, 
With double sound and single 
Delight our lips would mingle, 
With kisses glad as birds are 

That get sweet rain at noon ; 
If I were what the words are, 
And love were like the tune. 



If you were life, my darling, 
And I, your love; were death. 

We 'd shine and snow together 

Ere March made sweet the weather 

With daffodil and starling 

And hours of fruitful breath; 

If you were life, my darling. 
And I, your love, were death. 



If you were thrall to sorrow. 

And I were page to joy, 
We 'd play for lives and seasons. 
With loving looks and treasons, 
And tears of night and morrow. 
And laughs of maid and boy; 
If you were thrall to sorrow. 
And I were page to joy. 



If you were April's lady. 

And I were lord in May, 
We 'd throw with leaves for hours. 
And draw for days with flowers, 
Till day like night were shady. 

And night were bright like day : 
If you were April's lady. 
And I were lord in May. 



If you were queen of pleasure, 

And I were king of pain, 
We 'd hunt down love together 
Pluck out his flying-feather. 
And teach his feet a measure, 
And find his mouth a rein; 
If you were queen of pleasure, 
And I were king of pain. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



AN AUTUMN IDYL. 

Oh, knew he but his happiness, of men 
The happiest he! who far from public rage. 
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, 
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. 
What though the dome be wanting, whose 

proud gate, 
Each morning, vomits out the sneaking 

crowd, 
Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused.? 
Vile intercourse! What though the glit- 
tering robe 
Of every hue reflected light can give, 
Or floating loose, or stiff" with mazy gold. 
The pride and gaze of fools! oppress him 

not.? 
What though, from utmost land and sea 

purvey'd. 
From him each rarer tributary life 
Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps 
With luxury, and death.? What though 

his bowl 
Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in 

beds. 
Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, 
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state .? 
What though he knows not those fantastic 

joys. 
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive; 
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; 
Their hollow moments undelighted all.? 
Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged 
To disappointment, and fallacious hope; 
Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich, 
In herbs and fruits. Whatever, greens the 

Spring, 
When heaven descends in showers; or 

bends the bough 
When Summer reddens, and when Autumn 

beams; 
Or in the Wintry glebe whatever lies 
Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap: 
These are not wanting ; nor the milky drove, 
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale; 
Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of 

streams. 
And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere 
Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, 



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ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay. 
Nor aught besides of prospect, grove or 

song, 
Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes and fountains 

clear. 
Here too dwells simple Truth; plain Inno- 
cence; 
Unsullied Beauty; sound unbroken Youth, 
Patient of labor, with a little pleased; 
Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil, 
Calm Contemplation, and poetic Ease. 

Let others brave the flood in quest of gain, 
And beat, for joyless months, the gloomy 

wave : 
Let such as deem it glory to destroy. 
Rush into blood, the sack of cities seek, 
Unpierced, exulting in the widow's wail. 
The virgin's shriek, and infant's trembling 

cry: 
Let some, far distant from their native soil. 
Urged on by want or harden'd a\'arice, 
Find other lands beneath another sun : 
Let this through cities work his eager way) 
By legal outrage and established guile, 
The social sense extinct; and that ferment 
Mad into tumult the seditious herd, 
Or melt them down to slavery: let these 
Insnare the wretched in the toils of law. 
Fomenting discord, and perplexing right, 
An iron race! and those of fairer front. 
But equal inhumanity, in courts, 
Delusive pomp, and dark cabals, delight; 
Wreathe the deep bow, diffuse the lying 

smile. 
And tread the weary labyrinth of state: — 
While he, from all the stormy passions free 
That restless men involve, hears, and but 

hears, 
At distance safe, the human tempest roar, 
Wrapp'd close in conscious peace. The 

fall of kings. 
The rage of nations, and the crush of states. 
Move not the man who, from the world 

escaped. 
In still retreats, and flowery solitudes. 
To Nature's voice attends, from month to 

month 
And day to day, through the revolving 

year: 
Admiring, sees her in every shape; 



Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart. 
Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks 

of more. 
He, when young Spring protrudes the 

bursting gems, 
Marks the first bud, and sucks the health- 
ful gale 
Into his freshen'd soul. Her genial hours 
He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows. 
And not an opening blossom breathes in 

\ain. 
In summer, he beneath the living shade. 
Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wa\e, 
Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of 

these. 
Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung; 
Or what she dictates writes : and, oft an 

eye 
Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. 
When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the 

world. 
And tempts the sickled swain into the field, 
Seized by the general joy, his heart distends 
With gentle throes; and, through the tepid 

gleams 
Deep musing, then he best exerts his song. 
E'en Winter wild, to him is full of bliss. 
The mighty tempest, and the hoary waste 
Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 

earth, 
Aw-ake to solemn thought. At night the 

skies 
Disclosed, and kindled by refining frost, 
Pour every lustre on th' exalted eye. 
A friend, a book, the stealing hours secure. 
And mark them down for wisdom. With 

swift \\ing. 
O'er land and sea imagination roams; 
Or truth, divinely breaking on his mind, 
Elates his being, and unfolds his powers; 
Or in his breast heroic virtue burns. 
The touch of kindred too and love he feels; 
The modest eye, whose beams on his alone 
Ecstatic shine; the little strong embrace 
Of prattling children, twined around his 

neck. 
And emulous to please him, calling forth 
The fond parental soul. Nor purpose gay^ 
Amusement, dance, or song, he sternly 
scorns ; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



107 



For happiness and true philosophy 

Are of the social, still, and smiling kind. 

This is the life which those who fret in 

guilt, 
And guilty cities, never knew; the life, 
Led by primeval ages, uncorrupt, 
When Angels dwelt, and God himself 

with man ! 

— ^James Thompson. 



AT A MODERN SHRINE. 

With a spray of shower-wet lilac in your 
hand, 
There you stand ; 
And an April sun is g-linting on your hair. 
Are you not incarnate Spring.' 
Can I limn you.' 'Twere a thing 
That might drive a defter artist to despair. 

May not fancy hear Arcadian sheep-bells 
tinkle, 
As you sprinkle 
Diamond droplets from that fragrant purple 
spire.' 
Is the hyacinth's own hue 
Of a sweeter, suaver blue 
Than your eyes of soft and silken-shaded 
fire.' 

Yet no unsubstantial allegoric thing. 

Like the Spring 
Of the poets and the painters, love, are you 
Not a sylph, but sweetly human. 
And a very, very woman. 
Though you look as though compact of 
sun and dew. 

And you will not, like a vision, melt in 
air. 
If I dare 
To engirdle you with merely mortal arm : 
Proudly blest to so environ 
Such a super-dainty siren. 
Unafraid of ghostly flight, or evil charm. 



You 're a merry mortal maiden, and no 
myth. 
Like Lilith, 
Or the briny beauties shunned by sage 
Ulysses; 
Your drift of sunny hair 
Is no silky-subtle snare. 
And your lips were never shaped for cruel 
kisses. 

Yet you catch and keep my heart, and show 

no merc_>-. Little Circe, 

And in sooth I'm quite resigned to such a 

capture. 

Who 'd resist or turn a railer 

At so generous a gaoler.' 

Lo! I yield to love's restraint with ready 

raptiu-e. 

Ay, your voice is very sweet and most 
seductive. 
Yet productive 
Of no peril, and no sudden pang, and sharp. 
Near your swift and sweeping finger, 
'T is as safe as sweet to linger. 
For you play on the piano — not the harp! 

So ! you shake a saucy head, and swear I 

flatter ! 

Well, what matter.' ' 

I prefer you much to all the classic ladies. 

Be they goddesses or graces. 

And whatever be their places, 

From the heaven kist Olympus down to — 

Hades l' 

"There is nothing very classical about 
you.' " — 
Well, I doubt 3'ou, 
You 've a soft Ionic air, a grace that 's 
Attic; 
Yet I own you 're not antique. 
And for English over Greek, 
I avow that I 've a preference emphatic. 

There is many a little trifler with the 
Muses, 
Who abuses 
Everything that is post-Phidian and pretty; 



' 108 


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HOME BOOK 




But all loveliness is no man's 


Now, that really is exceedingly ungracious. 




And the Grecians, and the Romans, 


I protest that my defence 


Did 


not turn out a Turner or an Etty. 


Of the present's no pretence, 
And my praise of your sweet self is most 


I think that theirs was not the ouJy Charis, 


veracious. 




And that Paris 




Might distribute a whole orchard, love, 


I 've a very great respect for Attic art, 




to-day. 


For my part, 




And yet appear invidious; 


Yet I think, in spite of ultra-classic sages, 




Praxiteles and Phidias 


That the grand Hellenic story 


Shak 


e hands with Leech and Leighton 


Don 't exhaust creation's glory, 




and Millais. 


And that Nature's is a book of many pages. 


I am 


sure your hair has hyacinthine grace, 


I believe that, could I see a Grecian goddess 




And your face 


In a bodice 


Is as 


sweet and pure as any marble Clyte; 


Poppy-hued, and skirts the color of the 




And, although you 're scarce at 


wheat; 




home 


With a spray of lilac blossom 




In the clouds or on tlie foam. 


In her chastely-covered bosom, 


You 


're a perfect terra jiymn Aphrodite. 


I should find my British darling just as 
sweet. 


Did 


lot Gibson perpetrate a tinted Venus? 






(Which, between us, 


Love and loveliness can never be antique, 


Was 


a saucer-eyed and saftron-hued delu- 


And the Greek 




sion) 


No monopoly of either I '11 allow; 




But I swear, my darling, that you 


And I really do not care 




Are like poor Pygmalion's statue. 


For the whole of Lempriere. 


When just flushing with life's roseate suf- 


While to such a modern goddess I may 




fusion. 


bow. ; 
E. J. M. 


If you're scarcely statuesque, you 're sweet 






and simple. 
And that dimple 








That 


is lurking underneath your lower lip. 
In a charm the marble misses; 


FIDELITY. 




Oh I a fig for Parian kisses 


A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, 


Whi 


e from such a rosy chalice I may sip. 


A cry as of a dog or fox; 

He halts, — and searches with his eyes 


Let. 


\nacreon, let Horace and Tibullus, 


Among the scattered rocks : 




Or Catullus, 


And now at distance can discern 


Sing 


of Lalage and Pyrrha and the rest of 


A stirring in a brake of fern ; 




them, 


And instantly a dog is seen. 




I'll back my British beauty. 


Glancing through that covert green. 




From her chignon to her shoe-tie. 




To compete in grace and sweetness with 


The dog is not of mountain breed; 




the best of them. 


Its motions, too, are wild and shy — 
With something, as the shepherd thinks, 


Oh! 


you say my pretty talk is most mis- 


Unusual in its cry; 




leading — 


Nor is there any one in sight 




Special pleading! 


All round, in hollow or on height; 










AT A MODERN SHRINE. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



Ill 



Nor shout nor \vhi^^tle strikes his car. 

What is the creature doing here? 

It was a cove, a huge recess, 

That keeps, till June, December's snow; 

A lofty precipice in front, 

A silent tarn below ! 

Far in the bosotn of Helvellyn, 

Remote from public road or dwelling, 

Pathway, or cultivated land, — 

From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak 
In symphony austere; 
Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, 
And mists that spread the flying shroud; 
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, 
That, if it could, would hurry past; 
But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 



Not free from boding thoughts, awhile. 
The shepherd stood ; then makes his way 
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog 
As quickly as he may ; 
Nor far had gone before he found 
A human skeleton on the ground. 
The appalled discoverer with a sigh 
Looks round, to learn the history. 

From those abrupt and perilous rocks 

The man had fallen, that place of fear! 

At length upon the shepherd's mind 

It breaks, and all is clear. 

He instantly recalled the name, 

And who he was, and whence he came; 

Remembered, too, the very day 

On which the traveller passed this way. 

But hear a wonder, for whose sake 

This lamentable tale I tell! 

A lasting monument of words 

This wonder merits well. 

The dog, which still was hovering nigh, 

Repeating the same timid cry. 

This dog had been through three months 

space 
A dweller in that savage place. 



Yes, proof was plain that, since that day 

When this ill-fated traveller died, 

The dog had watched about the spot. 

Or by his master's side. 

How nourished here through such long 

time 
He knows who gave that love sublime. 
And gave that strength of feeling, great 
Above all human estimate! 

William Wordsworth. 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 

READER ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The holly-tree! 
The eye that contemplates it well, perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
As might confound the atheist's sophistries. 

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen; 
No grazing cattle, through their prickly 
round. 
Can reach to wound; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves 
appear. 

1 love to view these things with curious eye 

And moralize; 
And in this wisdom of the holly-tree 

Can emblems see 
Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant 

rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after-time. 

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might 
appear 

Harsh and austere — 
To those who on my leisure would intrude, 

Reserved and rude; 
Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 



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ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And should my youth, as youth is ;ipt, 1 


One ;;m' dream it, one must feel it, when in 


know, 


balmy summer air. 


Some harsliness show. 


One's heart away is stolen by sweet win- 


All vain asperities I, day by day, 


some girlhood fair. ' 


Woidd wear away. 


— Anonymous. 


Till the smooth, temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 






And as, when all the summer trees are seen 


THE PAINTER'S WALK. 


So bright and green. 




The holly-Iea\es their fadeless hues display 


I. 


Less bright than they; 


IN THE WOOD. 


But when the bare and wintry woods we see. 


(The Husband speaks.) 


What then so cheerful as the holly-tree? 






Between gray trunks the curving path- 




way runs. 


So, serious should my youth appear among 


Now in, now out; gray trunks of ancient 


The thoughtless throng ; 


trees 


So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 


Barred with soft shadow-bands, where falls 


More grave than they ; 


the sun's 


That in my age as cheerful I might be 


Ray slantwise through the wood, and on 


As the green winter of the holly-tree. 


the breeze 


Robert Southey. 


Rising and flutt'ring, rustling light. 




The dry brown leaves make answer, as the 




sight 




Of so much life renewed spoke hopefully — 




A green youth yet for them which should 


BY THE LILIES. 


not die! 


White swans beside the lilies, the lilies 


Here is a space cleared by the woodman's- 


golden-eyed, 


arm. 


The lilies white and foam tipp'd, in snowy 


We two will rest awhile, and lying low 


dress of bride; 


Under this beech tree, nigh a budding palm 


Their broad green leaflets floating upon the 


Thick set with silver bloom, note idly 


siher stream. 


how 


And, ah ! the fairest lily drifting in a dream ; 


Each tree is redd'ning to the Spring, 




Who soon a tender cloud of green will fling 


With paddles deftly balanced by her small 


Over these twigs, athwart this tracery 


fingers white. 


Of slender boughs seen black against the 


Her light canoe slow moving, mid the 


sky. 


rushes out of sight; 




Her golden hair low floating adown the 


No noises from the town can vex us here, 


vest of blue. 


But softened by long distance comes the 


Her sweet eyes on the river fiU'd with ten- 


shrill 


der dew. 


Sound of sharp plows; and, far away, the 




clear 


If there -vns a time when elfies, when 


Soft whistle of a woodman ; further still 


brownies, and when fays 


Falls from an upland farm the bleat 


Stole the heart froin loving manhood, sure 


Of new-born lambs; and mournful now. 


have come again those days ; 


but sweet, 



OF POETRY AXD SONG. 



115 



A ring-dove in a twisted tliorn hard bj 
Tempers earth's joy with her sad monody. 

Tiiough gray the tliorn is still, that soon 

will be 
White with soft bloom ; though mute the 

nightingale; 
Though not a primrose or anemone 

I las ventured to put forth a blossom pale ; 
"^'et does this sight of white clouds fleet 
Across the sky, and all those sounds that 

greet 
Our eager souls thirsting for summer's 

tune. 
Thrill us with promise of the coming June. 

Now sing with yoiu- low fluted voice, 
while I 
Lie with closed eyes, and fancy all around 
Are summer's dreamy songs, and greenery 
On these poor leafless trees, and all the 
ground 
Purple with scented orchis flowers, 
And the world young again, and all time 

ours 
To do great works in — I, wise, great of fame, 
And you — ah ! you alone I 'd keep the same. 



(The Wife sings.) 

The day breaks and the throstle sings, 
The joyful lark has spread his wings ; 
The whole green world thrills to his tvme. 
And wakes to greet this day of June! 
Wake, love! rejoice! 

Drops hang on every hedgerow leaf, 
They shine like tears of happy grief. 
The daisy cups are fringed with dew- 
As your eyes when I say " Adieu ! " 
Oh! sing, sweet voice! 

A new bud on your Pro\ence rose, 

Since last night's ling'ring through the 

close. 
Hangs down a loosened woodbine trail 
And for your window makes a veil ! 
Dear eyes, shine through! 



There sing upon the hawthorn bush 
The bold blackbird and sweeter thrush. 
The rolling clouds leave heaven blue, 
The eager sun but waits for you! 
Waits, love, for you! 



(The Husband speaks.) 

Dear voice, cease not; even the round-eyed 
dove 
Is silent, listening to your sweeter note. 
And I could listen ever, knowing love 
Is only grown, since first those words I 
wrote. 
Grown, but not changed, unless it be 
To take a nobler form ; for now I see 
How year by year my love has rooted been 
In deeper ground than youth and beauties 
seen! 



IN THE MEADOW. 

Here is an idle rhyme to make you smile, 
Or sigh, perhaps, if truth it seem to fold. 

Sit here and read it, but believe the while, 
I love so well, to me you'll ne'er be old. 



A painter to his wife one day : 

This sunset hour brings back to me, 

I know not why, the radiant day, 

When first my love you vowed to be. 

Go, then ; put on that very gown, 

And hold these cowslips in your hand 

And let your hair flow rippling down, 
That once more I may see you stand. 

A shy surprise in your blue eyes, 
And on your lips a dawning smile, 

The smile at my wild words. Surprise 
That I could doubt your love a while. 



116 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Ah! so; just so! and yet — alas! 

Though sweeter since is grown your face, 
Though dearer every day we pass, — 

I miss a bloom, a vanished grace. 

^'es, vain it is in summer's prime 
To seek the buds of April's day. 

For time is passing! Ah! not Time! 

'T is we, my love, who pass away ! 



Sad words, but true! So says your face 
grown grave, 
As slow your eyes have travelled o'er 
the page. 
Sad thoughts! which seem to mock this 
sunshine brave. 
Such April morns, what's Time to us, or 
Age.^ 

Are we not happy, rich in hope and love. 
Having our youth together, and one 
heart, 
One mind and will between us, God above : 
His sunshine round about us; and fair 
Art. 

To serve with reverent hands.' Look up 
again, 

And chase the gravity from eyelids wet; 
Let us be gay as yestermorn— for vain 

And idle is such fanciful regret! 



BY THE RIVER. 

(The Wife speaks.) 

Oh ! to be idle one long day ! 

When spring is almost over; 
And these great giants gaunt and gray 

Are green ; when roundhead clover 

And purple thyme-tufts fill the air, 
And fields are gay with daisies ; 

When, blushing, dies the hawthorn fair 
Just as your Poet praises. 



When overhead the lark's far song, 
And thrvishes in the hedgerows, 

And hidden linnets piping long 
Where rank the river sedge grows. 

Oh ! to be idle one spring day. 
To inuse in wood or meadow; 

Glide down this river 'twixt the play 
Of sun and trembling shadow ! 

I 'd see all wonders 'neath the stream, 
The pebbles and vext grasses; 

I 'd lean across the boat and dream 
As each scene slowly passes. 

The tide should ripple welcomes low 
And dance the kingcups bravely 

And flags in purple stately bow 
And nod the tall reeds gravely. 

I 'd rest an hour the willows by 

And say a prayer in pity, 
For all who stifle, groan and die, 

This day in crowded city. 



SUNSET. 

(The Wife speaks.) 

Sitting once in the twilight 

I watched the fire-flare 
Red glowing, and suddenly bright'ning 

Upon your face and hair. 

It gave strange light and shadow, 

An unfamiliar look ; 
I had to learn 3'ou over again 

Bending over your book. 

But when you broke the silence. 
And read those burning words 

Great poets have spent themselves to write, 
My heart leapt up towards 

And to your voice made answer, 
Which, like a wail of pain. 



OF FOETR2' AND SONG. 



117 



Or autumn winds in swaying trees 
Dill rise and fall again, 

And rise; inspired by passion — 

By passion, hope, or dread — 
You seemed a poet then, and I 

Forgot you only read. 

Then, turning o'er the pages, 

You read a song I knew ; 
'T was then the present vanished ; 

There was nor I, nor you, 

But a little child in a garden, 

Reading with puzzled air 
An old hand-written volume, 

Finding those verses th.ere. 

For years 'tween tarnished covers 

That passion-song nad lain : 
The hand that wrote it slept beneath 

Two purple lilac's rain. 

And as you read, I loitered 

Under the shade of trees, 
And smelt the fragrant lavender 

Swayed by the humming bees. 

Child-like, again I wondered 

What meant such sad, sore grief, 

And why the dead hand wrote that song. 
Marking against the leaf 

A cross, and a date forgotten, 

In pale and faded ink, — 
I could almost feel the summer wind 

Fresh from the river brink ! 

You paused . . "Well, there 's the song, love ! 

You like it.?" Ah! then fled 
My dreams. I answered : " Forgive me, I 

Heard not a word you read! " 

But that this liright eve's glory 

May live again some day, 
Read me aloud some stirring story 

Or poet's sad, sweet lay. 

***** 



(The Husband speaks.) 

There in that leaf we shut it, 
An embalmed happiness! 
Now homewards, wife. Has there been 
melody ! 
To-day.'' True eyes, confess. 

—A. L. B. 



MY HARVEST "EVE." 

FOR the glory of harvest time ! 

1 sing it in song and sing it in rhyme. 
With blush of the beauteous summer's 

prirne 
On its dewy dawns. 
And its hazy morns. 
And gathered grainage of golden corns. 

for the glory of harvest time! 

1 weave it in song and sing it in rhyme, 
While happy hours their passage chime; 

And every breath 
So softly saith 
" There 's life new born with the summer's 
death." 

for the glory of golden noon. 

And purpled heather, and ripened bloom, 
And full-orbed splendor of harvest moon — 

The dangerous moon. 

That fades s* soon 
From starry splendor to starless gloom! 

Oh for the peerless face that shines 
Out from the lattice beyond the limes! 
Harvest queen of my harvest time, 
How shall I praise her in song or rhyme, 

With her tangled tresses 

And eyes divine.'' 

1 '11 set her amidst the ripened sheaves, 
Or golden glory of burnished leaves: 
Flowers and fruits in the autumn eves. 
Fairest "Eve" of them all is she — 

My harvest queen 
From o'er the lea! 



118 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



O for the ladj of brow serene ! 
How shall I praise her, the manor queen, 
With the ebon gloss on her ringlets sheen? 
Never a tangled tress is seen. 
Nor saucy eyes to dance and gleam. 
Like eyes that dazzle iny rhymes, I 
ween. 

O for a heart to shrine them both! 

Either to lose or leave I 'm loth. 

For love has grown with the harvest growth, 

O gathered grain, 

Know you this pain? 
Can severed ties be blent again? 

The grain is gathered, shadows fall 
O'er land and lea like sombre pall; 
My heart and I are still in thrall; 

Your eyes will shine 

Starlike to mine. 
My Eve, for every harvest time? 

— Rita. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

Before I trust my fate to thee. 

Or place my hand in thine. 
Before I let thy future give 

Color and form to mine. 
Before I peril all for thee. 
Question thy soul to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 

A shadow of regret : 
Is there one link within the past 

That holds thy spirit yet? 
Or is thy faith as clear and free 
As that which I can pledge to thee? 

Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine. 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe. 

Untouched, vmshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, 
O, tell me before all is lost! 



Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, 

Within thy inmost soul. 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 

While I have staked the whole. 
Let no false pity spare tlie blow. 
But in true mercy tell me so. 

Is tiiere within thy heart a need 

That mine cannot fulfil? 
One chord that any other hand 

Could better wake or still? , 
Speak now, lest at some future day 
My whole life wither and decay. 

Lives there within thy nature hid 

The demon-spirit change. 
Shedding a passing glory still 

On all things new and strange? 
It may not be thy fault alone, — 
But shield my heart against thy own. 

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 

And answer to my claim. 
That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — 

Not thou, — had been to blame? 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
Wilt surely warm and save me now. 

Nay, answer iiot^ — I dare not hear. 
The words would come too late ; 

Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
So comfort thee my fate: 

Whatever on my heart may fall 

Remember, I would risk it all ! 

— Adelaide Anxe Procter. 



SONNETS. 

When I do count the clock that tells the 

time, 
And see the brave day sunk in hideous 

night ; 
When I behold the violets past prime, 
And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; 
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves. 
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. 
And Summer's green all girded up in 

sheaves, 








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'v^ij^tn CSttjMvtU** 



OF rOETR}' AND SONG. 



121 



Borne on the bier with white and bristly 

beard ; 
Then, of thy beautv do I question make, 
That tliou among the wastes of time must 

go, 
Since sweets and beauties do tliemsel\es 

forsake, 
And die as fast as they see others grow; 
And notliing 'gainst Time's scythe can 

make defence, 
Save breed, to bra\e him, when he takes 

thee hence. 



Shall I compare thee to a summer's dav? 
Thou art more lovely and more temperate; 
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of 

May. 
And summer's lease hath all too short a 

date. 
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, 
And often is his gold complexion dimmed, 
And every fair from fair sometime declines. 
By chance, or nature's changing course, 

untrimmed; 
But thy eternal summer shall not fade. 
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; 
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his 

shade. 
When in eternal lines to time thou growest. 
So long as men can breathe, or eves can 

see, 
So long lives this, and this gives life to 

thee. 



So is it not with me as with that Muse, 
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse; 
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, 
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse; 
Making a compliment of proud compare, 
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's 

rich gems. 
With April's first-born flowers, and all 

things rare 
That heaven's air in this huge rondure 

hems. 



Oh let me, true in love, but truly write, 
And then believe me, my love is as fair 
As any mother's child, though not so bright 
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air: 

Let them say no more that like of hear- 
say well; 

I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. 



Let those who are in favor with their stars 
Of public honor and proud titles boast; 
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumphs 

bars; 
Unlooked-for joy in that I honor most. 
Great princes favorites their fair lea\es 

spread, 
But as the marigold, at the sun's eye; 
And in themselves their pride lies buried, 
For at a frown they in their glory die. 
The painful warrior famoused for fight. 
After a thousand victories once foiled. 
Is from the book of honor rased quite. 
And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. 
Then happy I, that love and am beloved, 
Where I mav not remove nor be removed. 



When in disgrace with fortune and men's 

eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf hea\en with my bootless 

cries, 
And look upon nnself, and curse my fate. 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 
Featured like him, like him with friends 

possessed. 
Desiring this man's art, and that man's 

scope. 
With what I most enjoy contented least; 
Yet in these tiiougiits m_\self almost 

despising. 
Haply I think on thee, and then my state 
(Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth) sings Inmns at heaven's 

gate. 
For thy sweet love remembered such 

wealth brings, 
Tiiat then I scorn to change my state 

with kinsis. 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



When to the sessions of sweet silent 

thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past, 
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 

\ And ^vith old woes new wail my dear 

} time's waste. 

'! ' • Then, can I drown an eye, imused to flow, 

' For precious friends hid in death's dateless 

\ night. 

And weep afresh love's long since cancelled 

woe, 
And moan th' expense ofmany a vanished 

sight. 
Then can I grieve of grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay, as if not paid before: 
But if the while I think on thee, dear 

friend. 
All losses are restored, and sorrow ends. 



Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, 
Which I by lacking have supposed dead; 
And there reigns love, and all love's loving 

parts. 
And all those friends which I thought 

buried. 
How many a holy and obsequious tear 
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine 

eye, 
As interest of the dead, which now appear 
But things removed, that hidden in thee lie! 
Thou art the prave where buried love doth 

live. 
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, 
Who all their oarts of me to thee did give; 
That due of many now is thine alone : 
Their images I loved I view in thee. 
And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. 



Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign 

eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows 

green. 



Gilding pale streams with heavenly al- 
chemy ; 
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face. 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. 
Even so my sim one early morn did shine, 
With all triumphant splendor on my brow; 
But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine. 
The region cloud hath masked him from 
me now. 
Yet him for this my love no whit dis- 

daineth ; 
Suns of the world may stain, when heav- 
en's sun staineth. 



Why didst thou promise such a beauteous 

day, 
And make me travel forth ^vithout iny 

cloak. 
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, 
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke.' 
'T is not enough that through the cloud 

thou break, 
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, 
For no man well of such a salve can speak. 
That heals the wound, and cures not the 

disgrace ; 
Nor can thy shame gJNe physic to my 

grief— 
Though thou repent, yet I have still the 

loss: 
Th' oftender's sorrow lends but weak relief 
To him that bears the strong offence's 

cross, 
Ah, but those tears are pearl, which thy 

love sheds, 
And they are rich, and ransom all ill. 

deeds. 



What is ^•our substance, whereof are you 

made, 
That millions of strange shadows on you 

tend.^ 
Since every one hath, every one, one shade, 
And you, but one, can every shadow lend. 



OF POETRT AXD SOXG. 



123 



Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit 
Is poorly imitated after you; 
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, 
And you in Grecian tires are painted new: 
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year— 
The one doth shadow of your beauty show 
The other as your bounty doth appear ; 
And you in every blessed shape we know. 

In all external grace you have some part; 

But you like none, none you, for constant 
heart. 



Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous 

seem. 
By that sweet ornament which truth doth 

give! 
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 
As the perfumed tincture of the roses — 
Hang on such thorns, and plav as wantonlv 
When summer's breath their masked buds 

discloses; 
But, for their virtue only is their show; 
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade, 
Die to theinselves. Sweet roses do not so; 
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors 

made : 
And so of you beauteous and lovely 

youth, 
When that shall fade, my verse distils 

your truth. 



Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful 

rhyme. 
But vou shall shine more bright in these 

contents 
Than imswept stone, besmeared \\ ith slut- 
tish time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn. 
And broils root out the works of masonry. 
Nor Mars his sword, nor war's quick fire 

shall burn 
The living record of your memory. 



'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity 
Shall you pace forth : your praise shall still 

find room 
Even in the eyes of all posterity, 
That wear this world out to the ending 
doom. 
So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
You live in this, and dwell in lover's 
eyes. 

William Shakespeare. 



THE MOTHER'S HOPE. 

Is there, when the winds are singing 

In the happy summer time — 
When the raptured air is ringing 
With earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp, and village chime — 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Unsighingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, 
As the laughter of a child? 

Listen! and be now delighted: 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 

Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; 

Life and Light are reunited, 
Amid countless caroHings; 

Yet, delicious as they are. 

There 's a sound that 's sweeter far — 

One that makes the nearc rejoice 

More than all, — the human ^oice.' 

Organ finer, deeper, ciea/er. 
Though it be a stranger's tone — 
Than the winds or waters dearer, 
More enchanting to the nearer,' 

For it answereth to his own 
But, of all its witching words. 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched toners, 

Haunted strains from rivulets. 
Hum of bees among the flowers. 
Rustling leaves, and silver showers, — 
These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 



124 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round— 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere mj child could speak a word. 

Ah ! 't M'as heard by ear far purer, 
Fondlier formed to catch the strain — 

Ear of one whose love is surer — 

Hers, the mother, the endurer 
Of the deepest share of pain ; 

Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 

Memories of that cry of pleasure; 

Hers to hoard, a life-time after. 

Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'T is a mother's large affection 

Hears with a mysterious sense — 
Breathings that evade detection, 
Whisper faint, and fine inflexion. 

Thrill in her with power intense. 
Childhood's honeyed words untaught 
Hiveth she in loving thought — 
Tones that never thence depart; 
For she listens — with her heart. 

Laman Blanchard. 



FLEURETTE. 

We have been friends together. 

In sunshine and in shade, 
Since first beneath the chestnut-tree 

In infancy we played; 
But coldness dwells within thy heart, 

A cloud is on thy brow ; 
We have been friends together, — 

Shall a light word part us now.'' 

We have been gay together; 

We have laughed at little jests; 
For the fount of hope was gushing. 

Warm and joyous, in our breasts. 
But lavighter now hath fled thy lip, 

And sullen glooms thy brow 
We have been gay together, — 

Shall a light word part us now.? 



We have been sad together, — 

We have wept, with bitter tears, 
O'er the grass-grown graves, where slum- 
bered 

The hopes of early years. 
The voices which are silent there 

Would bid thee clear thy brow; 
We have been sad together, — 

O, what shall part us now? 
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton. 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 

When first thou earnest, gentle, shv, and 
fond. 
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest 
treasiu"e, 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 

Airthat it yet had felt of earthly pleasure ; 
Nor thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy 
years. 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven ; 
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears» 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly 
given — 
Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 
And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my 
child! 

Not willing to be left — still by my side. 
Haunting my walks, while summer-day 

was dying; 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to 

glide 
Through the dark room where I was 

sadlv lying; 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered 

cheek. 

O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 

Earth's fragile idols, like a tender flower, 
No strength in all thy freshness, prone to 
fade, 




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i 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



127 



And bending weakly to the thunder- 
shower; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found force 
to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the 
v.ind ! 

Then thou, my merry love — bold in thy 

glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight 

dancing. 
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free — 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing 

glancing, 
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth. 
Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened 

earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of 

Which sweet tVoni childhood's rosy lips 
resoundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could 
cloy, 
And the glad heart from which all grief 
reboundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and 
bless. 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness 
warming; 

The coaxing smile — the frequent soft 
caress — 
ine earnest tearful prayer all wrath dis- 
arming! 

Again my heart a new affection found, 

B^w J.i^ug.il \.,,ui love with thee had 
reached its bound. 

At length thou camest — thou, the last and 
least, 
Nick-named "the Emperor" by thy 
laughing brothers — 
Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast. 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway the 
others — 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile. 



And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! 
An eye of resolute and successful schem- 
ing! 

Fair shoulders — curling lips — and daunt- 
less brow — 
FiJt for the world's strife, not for poet's 
dreaming; 

And proud the lifting of thy stately head. 

And the firm bearing of thy conscious 
tread. 

Different from both! yet each succeeding 
claim 
I, that all other love had been forswear- 
ing. 
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same; 
Nor injured either by this love's compar- 
ing. 
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 
But in the mother's heart found room for 
all! 

Caroline Norton. 



LOVE. 



Love.' I will tell you what it is to love! 
It is to build with human thoughts a shrine. 
Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous 

dove. 
Where Time seems young, and Life a 

thing divine. 
All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine 
To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. 
Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine ; 
Ai'ound, the streams their flowery margins 

kiss; 
And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven 

is surely this. 

Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the 

true. 
The immortal glory which hath never set; 
The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er 

knew: 
Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet! 
O! who but can recall the eve they met 
To breathe, in some green walk, their first 

young vow? 



138 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



While summer flowers with moonlight 

dews were wet, 
And winds sighed soft around the movm- 

tain's brow, 
And all was rapture then which is but 

memory now! 

Charles Swain. 



CHRISTINE. 

I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, 

I feel I am alone. 
I checked him while he spoke: jet could 
he speak, 

Alas! I would not check. 
For reasons not to love him once I sought, 

And wearied all mv thought 
To vex myself and him: I now would give 

Mj love could he but live 
Who lately lived for me, and when he 
found 

'T was vain, in holy ground 
He hid his face amid the shades of death! 

I waste for him my breath 
Who wasted his for me; but mine returns. 

And this lone bosom burns 
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 

And waking me to weep 
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for 
3'ears 

Wept he as bitter tears ! 
"Merciful God ! " such was his latest prayer, 

" These may she never share ! " 
Quieter in his breath, his breath more cold 

Than daisies in the mold, 
Where children spell athwart the church- 
yard gate 

His name and life's brief date. 
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be. 

And O, pray, too, for me! 

— Walter Savage Landor. 



LOCKSLEY HALL. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 

yet 't is early morn — 
Leave me here, and when you want me, 

sound upon the bugle horn. 



'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, 

the curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying 

over Locksley Hall ; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance over- 
looks the sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 
cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, 

ere I went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 

to the west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 
through the mellow shade, 

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in 
a silver braid. 

Here about the beach I wandered, nourish- 
ing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the long 
result of time; 

When the centuries behind me like a fruit- 
ful land reposed; 

When I clung to all the present for the 
promise that it closed; 

When I dipt into the future tar as human 

eye could see — 
Saw the vision of the world, and arl the 

wonder that would be. 

In the spring a fuller crimson comp" upo'-\ 
the robin's breast; 

In the spring the wanton lapwing gets him- 
self another crest; 

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the 

burnished dove; 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly 

turns to thoughts of love. 

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than 
should be for one so young. 

And her eyes on all my motions with a 
mute observance hung. 




tl|Ht ouerf ometli 



m^ (|e ^\p\ ()e mj m- 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



131 



And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and 

speak the truth to me; 
Trust me, cousin, all the current of my 

being sets to thee." 

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a 

color and a light. 
As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the 

northern night. 

And she turned — her bosom shaken with a 

sudden storm of sighs — 
All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark 

of hazel eyes — 

Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing 
they should do me wrong;" 

Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin.''" 
weeping, " I have loved thee long." 

Love took up the glass of time, and turned 

it in his glowing hands; 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in 

golden sands. 

Love took up the harp of life, and smote 
on all the chords with might; 

Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, 
passed in music out of sight. 

Many a morning on the moorland did we 

hear the copses ring. 
And her whisper thronged my pulses with 

the fulness of the spring. 

Many an evening by the waters did we 

watch the stately- ships. 
And our spirits rushed together at the 

touching of the lips. 

O my cousin, shallow-hearted! Oh my 

Amy, mine no more! 
Oh the dreary, dreary moorland ! Oh the 

barren, barren shore! 

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than 

all songs have sung — 
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a 

shrewish tongue! 



Is it well to wish thee happy.? — having 

known me; to decline 
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower 

heart than mine! 

Yet it shall be : thou shalt lower to his level 

day by day, 
What is fine within thee growing coarse to 

sympathize with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art 

mated with a clown. 
And the grossness of his nature will have 

weight to drag thee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall 
have spent its novel force, 

Something better than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. 

What is this.? his eyes are heavy — think 
not they are glazed with wine. 

Go to him; it is thy duty — kiss him; take 
his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 

is overwrought — 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch 

him with thy lighter thought. 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things 

to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, though I 

slew thee with my hands. 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from 

the heart's disgrace. 
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in 

a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 

the strength of youth ! 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from 

the living truth! 

Cursed be the sicklv forms that err from 

honest nature's rule ! 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened 

forehead of the fool ! 



133 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Well — 'tis well that I should bluster! — 
Hadst thou less unworthy proved, 

Would to God — for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife was loved. 

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which 

bears but oitter fruit? 
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my 

heart be at the root. 

Never! though my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many-wintered crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home^ 

Where is comfort? in division of the records 

of the mind? 
Can I part her from herself, and love her, 

as I knew her, kind? 

I remember one that perished ; sweetly did 

she speak and move; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look 

at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her 

for the love she bore? 
No — she never loved me truly ; love is love 

for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scorned of devils! thic 
is truth the poet sings. 

That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- 
bering happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest 

thy heart be put to proofs 
In the dead, unhappy night, and when the 

rain is on the roof. 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou 

art staring at the wall, 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and 

the shadows rise and fall. 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, point- 
ing to his drunken sleep. 

To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the 
tears that thou wilt weep. 



Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whis- 
pered by the phantom years. 

And a song from out the distance in the 
ringing of thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 

kindness on thv pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get 

thee to thy rest again. 

Nay, but nature brings thee solace ; for a 

tender voice wiH cry ; 
'T is a purer life than tnine; a lip to drain 

thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips wili laugh me down ; my latest 

rival brings thee rest — 
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me 

from the mother's breast. 

Oh, the child, too, clothes the father with a 

dearness not his due; 
Half is thine, and half is his — it will be 

worthy of the two. 

Oh, I see thee, old and formal, fitted to thy 

petty part, 
With a little hoard of maxims preaching- 

down a daughter's heart : 

" They were dangerous guides, the feel- 
ings — she herself was not exempt — 

Truly, she herself had suffered." — Perish 
in thy self-contempt! 

Overlive it — lower yet— be happy! where- 
fore should I care? 

I myself must mix with action, lest I 
wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn to, light- 
ing upon days like these? 

Every door is barred with gold, and opens 
but to golden keys. 

Every gate is thronged with suitors; all the 

markets overflow. 
I have but an angry fancy : what is that 

which I should do? 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



133 



I had been content to perish, falling on the 

foeman's ground, 
When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and 

the winds are laid with sound. 

But the jingling of the guinea helps the 

hurt that honor feels, 
And the nations do but murmur, snarling 

at each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness.' I will turn 

that earlier page. 
Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou 

wondrous mother-age! 

Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt 

before the strife. 
When I heard my days before me, and the 

tumult of my life; 

Yearning for the large excitement that the 
coming years would yield — 

Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves 
his father's field. 

And at night along the dusky highway 

near and nearer drawn, 
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring 

like a dreary dawn ; 

And his spirit leaps within him to be gone 

before him then. 
Underneath the light he looks at, in among 

the throngs of men — 

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 

reaping something new : 
That which they have done but earnest of 

the things that they shall do; 

For I dipt into the future, as far as human 

eye could see — 
Saw the vision of the world, and all the 

Avonder that would be — 

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argo- 
sies of magic sails, 

Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping 
down with costlv bales — 



Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 
there rained a ghastly dew 

From the nation's airy navies grappling in 
the central blue; 

Far along the world-wide whisper of the 
south-wind rushing warm, 

With the standai-ds of the peoples plunging 
through the thunder storm ; 

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and 
the battle- flags were furled 

In the parliament of man, the federation of 
the world. 

There the common sense of most shall 
hold a fretful realm in awe. 

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt 
in universal law. 

So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping 

through me, left me dry. 
Left me with a palsied heart, and left me 

with the jaundiced eye — 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things 

here are out of joint. 
Silence moves, but slowl\', slowly, creeping 

on from point to point; 

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, 

creeping nigher. 
Glares at one that nods and winks behind 

a slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not through the ages one in- 
creasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widened with 
the process of the suns. 

What is that to hirn that reaps not harvest 

of his youthful joys. 
Though the deep heart of existence beat 

for ever like a boy's.'' 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and 

I linger on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world 

is more and more. 



134 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Knowledge blinds, but wisdom lingers, and 

he bears a laden breast, 
Full of sad experience moving toward the 

stillness of his rest. 

Hark! mj merry comrades call me, sound- 
ing on the bugle horn — 

Thej to whom my foolish passion were a 
target for their scorn ; 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such 

a mouldered string? 
I am ashamed through all my nature to 

have loved so slight a thing. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness! 
woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 

Nature made them blinder motions bound- 
ed in a shallower brain; 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- 
sions, matched with mine. 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as 
water unto wine — 

Here at least, where nature sickens, noth- 
ing. Ah, for some retreat 

Deep in yonder shining orient, where my 
life began to beat 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my 

father, evil-starred; 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish 

uncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to 
wander far away. 

On from island unto island at the gate- 
ways of the day — 

Larger constellations burning, mellow 
moons and happy skies. 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms in clus- 
ter, knots of Paradise 

Never comes the trader, never floats an 

European flag — 
Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, 

droops the trailer from the crag — 



Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs 

the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 

spheres of sea. 

There, methinks, would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind — 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions, cramped no longer, 
shall have scope and breathing-space ; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall 
rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall 

dive, and they shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl 

their lances in the sun. 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the 
rainbows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over mis- 
erable. books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I 

know my w^ords are wild, 
But I count the gray barbarian lower than 

the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of 

our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a 

beast with lower pains! 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me 

were sun or clime .^ 
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost 

files of time — 

I, that rather held it better men should 

perish one by one, 
Than that earth should stand at gaze like 

Joshua's moon in Ajalon! 

Not in vain the distance beacons. For- 
ward let us range ; • 

Let the great world spin forever down the 
ringing grooves of change. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



135 



Through the shadow of the globe we sweep 

into the younger day : 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of 

Cathay. 

Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help 

me as when life begun — 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the 

lightnings, weigh the sun — 

Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 

hath not set; 
Ancient founts of inspiration well through 

all my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell 

to Locksley Hall ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now 

for me the roof-tree fall. 

Comes a vapor from the margin, blacken- 
ing over heath and holt, 

Cramming all the blast before it, in its 
breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or 
hail, or fire or snow; 

For the mighty wind arises, roaring sea- 
ward, and I go. 

Alfred Tennyson, 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The play is done — the curtain drops. 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell ; 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he 's laughed and said his say. 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that 's any thing but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends — 
Let's close it with a parting rhyme; 

And pledge a hand to all young friends. 
As fits the merrv Christmas time; 



On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, 
That fate ere long shall bid you play; 

Good-night! — with honest gentle hearts 
A kindly greeting go ahvay! 

Good-night! — I 'd say the griefs, the joys. 

Just hinted in this mimic page. 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age; 
I 'd say your woes were not less keen. 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I 'd say we suffer and we strive 

Not less nor more as men than boys — 
With grizzled beards at forty-five. 

As erst at twelve in corduroys; 
And if, in time of sacred youth. 

We learned at home to love and pray, 
Pray heaven that early love and truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I 'd say how fate may change and shift — 
The prize be sometimes with the fool. 

The race not always to the swift; 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown. 
The knave be lifted over all, 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design.' 

Blessed be He who took and gave! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not 
mine. 

Be weeping at her darling's grave.'' 
We bow to heaven that willed it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all. 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That 's free to give or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit — 
Who brought him to that mirth and 
state .' 

His betters, see, below him sit. 
Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 

Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 
To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 



1C6 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, 
Confessing heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance. 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely 
killed— 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Amen! — whatever fate be sent. 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let old and young accept their part, 
And bow before the awful will. 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses, or who wins the prize — 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise, 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;) 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days; 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to heaven on high, it said. 

And peace on earth to gentle men! 

My song, save this, is little worth; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth. 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 
William Makepeace Thackeray. 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

And I '11 protect it now. 



'T was my forlather's hand 
That placed it near his cot; 

There, woodman, let it stand. 
Thy axe shall harm it not! 

That old familiar tree. 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea, 

And wouldst thou hew it down.-* 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; " 
O, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade; 
In all tb.eir gushing joy 

Here too my sisters played. 
My motlier kissed me here ; 

Mv father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand! 

My heart strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend! 
Here shall the wild bird sing. 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree! the stoim still bra\e! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While 1 've a hand to save. 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

George P. Morris. 



THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. 

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall. 
The holly branch shone on the old oak 

wail ; 
And the Baron's retainers were blithe and 

gay, 

And keeping their Christmas holiday. 
The Baron beheld with a father's pride 
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride; 
While she with her bright eyes seemed to 

be 
The star of the goodly company. 




Why shouldst thou study in the month of June 

In dusky books of Greek and Hebrew lore, _^^ 

When the great Teacher of all glorious things ^ .1 ||lW ''llllj M 1 A 1 (? ^ 

Passes in hourly light before thy door? l| {f^Jtgj ^^^<Xrr ■ 



Harriet Beecher Stowe. MiJlJiillll'' ^^=^ O^O^^^^ 



OF POETHT AND SONG. 



139 



" 1 'm weary of dancing now," slic cried; 
' Here tarry a moment, — I'll hide, I'll hide! 
And, Lo\ell, be sure, thou'rt first to trace 
The clew to my secret lurking place " 
Away she ran — and her friends began 
Eacti tower to search, and each nook to 

scan; 
And young Lovell cried, " O, where dost 

thou hide? 
I 'm lonesome without thee, my own dear 

bride." 

They sought her that night, and they 

sought her next day, 
And they sought her in vain when a week 

passed away, 
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest 

spot. 
Young Lovell sought wildly, — but found 

her not. 
And years flew by, and their grief at last 
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past. 
And when Lovell appeared, the children 

cried, 
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy 

bride." 

At length an oak chest that had long laid 

hid. 
Was found in the castle, — they raised the 

lid. 
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there 
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair! 
O, sad was her fate! — in sportive jest 
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest. 
It closed, with a spring! — and dreadful 

doom, 
The bride la}' clasped in her living tomb! 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



TO PERILLA. 

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see 
Me, day by day, to steal away from thee.' 
Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid 

come, 
And haste away to mine eternal home; 



'Twill not not be long, Perilla, after this 
That I must give thee the supremest kiss. 
Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and 

bring 
Part of the cream from that religious 

spring, 
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and 

feet; 
That done, then wind me in that very 

sheet 
Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when. 

thou didst implore 
The gods' protection, but the night before; 
Follow me weeping to my turf, and tliere 
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. 
Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be 
Devoted to the memory of me; 
Then shall my ghost not walk about, but 

keep 
Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. 
Robert Herrick. 



THE ONE GRAY HAIR. 

The wisest of the wise 
Listen to pretty lies. 

And love to hear them told; 
Doubt not that Solomon 
Listened to many a one — 
Some in his youth, and more when he grew 
old. 

I never sat among 

The choir of wisdom's song, 

But pretty lies loved I 
As much as any king — 
When youth was on the wing. 
And (must it then be told.') when youth 
had quite gone by. 

Alas! and I have not 
The pleasant hour forgot, 

When one pert lady said — 
" O, Landor! 1 am quite 
Bewildered with aftright ; 
I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your 
head ! " 



140 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Another, more benign, 
Drew out that hair of mine, 
And in her own dark hair 
Pretended she had found 
That one, and twirled it round. 
Fair as she was, slie never was so fair. 

Walter Savage Landor. 



MEMORY. 

The mother of the muses, we aye taught, 
Is memory, she has left me; they remain. 
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing 
About the summer days, my loves of old. 
*• Alas! alas! " is all I can reply. 
Memory has left with me that name alone. 
Harmonious name, which other bards may 

sing. 
But her bright image in my darkest hour 
Comes back, in vain comes back, called or 

imcalled. 
Forgotten are the names of visitors 
Ready to press my hand but yesterday; 
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends 
Whose genial converse and glad counte- 
nance 
Are fVesh as ever to mine ear and eye; 
To these, when I have written, and 

besought 
Remembrance of me, the word " Dear " 

alone 
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in 

vain. 
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, 
If thy stream carried only weeds away, 
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike 
It hurries down to wither on the strand, 
Walter Savage Landor. 



THE RAVEN. 

Once, upon a midnight dreary, while I 

pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume 

of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly 

there came a tapping, 



As of some one gently rapping, rapping at 

my chamber door : 
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping 

at my chamber door — 

Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah! distinctly I remember! it was in the 
bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember wrought 
its ghost upon the floor. 

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had 
tried to borrow 

From my books surcease of sorrow — sor- 
row for the lost Lenore — 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the 
angels name Lenore — 

Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of 
each purple curtain 

Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic ter- 
rors never felt before: 

So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating, 

" 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at 
my chainber door; — 

This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitat- 
ing then no longer, 

" Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your for- 
giveness I implore; 

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently 
you came rapping, 

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping 
at my chamber door. 

That I scarce was sure I heard you," — here 
I opened w ide the door : 

Darkness there, and nothing more ! 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I 

stood there wondering, fearing. 
Doubling, dreaming dreams no mortal ever 

dared to dream before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the 

darkness gave no token. 
And the only word there spoken was the 

whispered word, " Lenore! " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured 

back the word " Lenore! " 

Merely this, and nothing more. 



! I 

: \ 



f 



OF POETRY AND SOYG. 



141 



Then into the chamber turning, all mv soul 

within me burning, 
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat 

louder tlian before : 
*' Surel V," said I, " surelv that is something 

at my window lattice; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this 

mystery explore : — 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this 

mystery explore; — 

'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with 
man_N- a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately raven of the 
saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he; not an in- 
stant stopped or staved he; 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched 
abo\e my chamber door — 

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above 
my cliamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing tnore. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 
fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the 
countenance it wore; 

" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
thou," I said, " art sure no craven — 

Ghastly, grim and ancient raven, wander- 
ing from the nightly shore — 

Tell me ^^hat thy lordly name is on the 
night's Plutonian shore! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to 

hear discourse so plainly — 
Though its answer little meaning, little 

relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living 

liuman being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above 

his chamber door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust 

above his chamber door. 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid 
bust, spoke only 



That one word, as if his soul in that one 

word he did outpour. 
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a 

feather then he fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more tlian muttered, "Other 

friends have flown before — 
On the morrow he will lea\e me, as my 

hopes have flown before." 

Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so 

aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its 

only stock and store — 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom 

•unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till his 

songs one burden bore — 
Till the dirges of his hope the melancholy 

burden bore 

Of ' Never — Nevermore.' " 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad 
soul into smiling. 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front 
of bird, and bust and door; 

Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook 
myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this om- 
inous bird of yore — 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, 
and ominous bird of yore 

Meant in croaking " Nevermo"e." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syl- 
lable expressing 

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned 
into my bosom's core ; 

This, and more, I sat divining, with my 
head at ease reclining, 

On the cushion's velvet lining that the 
lamplight •>»loated o'er; 

But whose velvet violet lining, with the 
lamplight gloating o'er. 

She shall press — ah, ne\er more! 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, 
perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by angels, whose faint foot-falls 
tinkled on the tufted floor. 



143 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



"Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent 
thee, by these angels he hath sent thee. 

Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy 
memories of Lenore! 

Quaft", oh quaflthis kind nepenthe, and for- 
get this lost Lenore! " 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet! " said I, thing of evil ! — prophet 

still, if bird or devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest 

tossed thee here ashore — 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert 

land enchanted. 
On this home by horror haunted — tell me 

truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? tell me — 

tell me, I implore!" 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet 

still, if bird or devil! 
By that heaven that bends above us — by 

that God we both adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 

the distant Aidenn, 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 

angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the 

angels name Lenore." 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 

fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the 

night's Plutonian shore! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that 

lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the 

bust above m^' door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take 

thy forin from off my door!" 

Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, 

still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my 
^ chamber door; 



And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- 
mon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight, o'er him streaming 

thiows his shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that 
lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



SONG OF THE WINDS. 

Up the tiale and down the bourne, 
O'er the meadow swift we fly ; 

Now we sing, and now we mourn, 
Now we whistle, now we sigh. 

By the grassy-fringed river. 

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; 
Mid the lilj'-leaves we quiver, 

To their very hearts we creep. 

Now the maiden rose is blushing 

At the frolic things we say, 
While aside her cheek we 're rushing; 

Like some truant bees at play. 

Through the blooming groves we rustle^ 

Kissing every bud we pass, — 
As we did it in the bustle. 

Scarcely knowing how it was. 

Down the glen, across the mountain, 
O'er the yellow heath we roam. 

Whirling round about the fountain. 
Till its little breakers foam. 

Bending down and weeping willows, 
While our vesper hymn we sigh; 

Then unto our rosy pillows 
On our weary wings we hie. 

There of idlenesses dreaming, 
Scarce from waking we refrain, 

Moments long as ages deeming 
Till we 're at our play again. 

George Darley. 



T» 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



143 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
That never has known the barber's shear, 

All you wish is woman to win ; 

This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to forty year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 

Billing and cooing is all your cheer, — 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window-panes, — 

Wait till you come to forty year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; 

Grizzling hair the brain doth clear; 
Then you know a boy is an ass, 
Then you know the worth of a lass, — 

Once you have come to forty year. 

Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare, 

All good fellows whose beards are gray. — 
Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was past away.' 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed. 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone. 
May pray and whisper and we not list, 
Or look away and never be missed, — 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian's dead! God rest her bier, — 
How I loved her twenty years syne! 

Marian's married; but I sit here, 

Alone and merry at forty year, 

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 



DIVERSITIES OF FORTUNE. 

FROM " MISS KILMANSEGG." 

What different dooms our birthdays bring! 
For instance, one little manikin thing 



Survives to wear many a wrinkle; 
While death forbids another to wake, 
And a son that it took nine moons to make 

Expires without even a twinkle: 

Into this world we come like ships. 
Launched from the docks, and stocks, and 
slips. 

For fortune fair or fatal ; 
And one little craft is cast away 
In its very first trip in Babbicome Bay, 

While another rides safe at Port Natal. 

What different lots our stars accord! 
This babe to be hailed and wooed as a lord, 

And that to be shunned like a leper! 
One, to the world's wine, honey and corn. 
Another, like Colchester native, born 

To its vinegar only, and pepper. 

One is littered under a roof 
Neither wind nor waterproof, — 

That's the prose of Love in a cottage, — 
A punny, naked, shivering wretch, 
The whole of whose birthright would not 

fetch, 
Though Robins himself drew up the sketch, 

The bid of a " mess of pottage." 

Born of Fortunatus's kin. 
Another comes tenderly ushered in 

To a prospect all bright and burnished : 
No tenant he for life's back slums, — 
He comes to the world as a gentleman 
comes 

To a lodging ready furnished. 

And the other sex — the tender — the fair — 
What wide reverses of fate are there! 
Whilst Margaret, charmed by the Bulbul 
rare, 
In a garden of Gul reposes, 
Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to 

street 
Till — think of it, you who find life so sweet! 
She hates the smell of roses ! 

Thomas Hood. 



144 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



NO KISS. 


I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy 




brow 


" Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite 


Philip, my king! 


To a pretty little tune, 


The spirit that there lies sleeping now 


Holding up her dainty moutli, 


May rise like a giant, and make men bov/ 


Sweet as roses born in June. 


As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his 


Will was ten years old that day, 


peers. 


And he pulled her golden curls. 


My Saul, than i\\y brethren higher and 


Teasingly, and answer made: 


fairer, 


" I'm too old — I don't kiss girls." 


Let me behold thee in future years! 




Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 


Ten years pass, and Marguerite 


Philip, my king; — 


Smiles, as Will kneels at her feet, 




Gazing fondly in her eyes, 


A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,. 


Praying: "Won't you kiss me sweet.^" 


Philip, my king! 


She is seventeen to-day; 


Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way 


With her birthday ring she toys 


Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; 


For a inanient, then replies: 


Rebels within thee and foes without 


"I'm too old — I don't kiss boys!" 


Will snatch at thy crown. But march 




on, glorious. 


Madge Elliot 


Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout, 




As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victor- 




ious. 




"Philip, the king!" 


PHILIP, MY KING. 


Dinah Mulock Craik. 


" Who bears upon his baby brow the round 




And top of sovereignty." 




Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 


INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 


Philip, my king! 




For round thee the purple shadow lies 


O, LISTEN, man! 


Of babyhood's royal dignities. 


A voice within us speaks the startling 


Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 


word, 


With Love's invisible sceptre laden; 


"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial 


I am thine Esther, to command 


voices 


Till thou shalt find thy queen-hand- 


Hymn it around our souls: according 


maiden. 


harps, 


Philip, my king! 


By angel fingers touched, when the mild 




stars 


O, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 


Of morning sang together, sound forth 


Philip, my king! 


still 


Wfien those beautiful lips 'gin suing. 


The song of our great immortality! 


And, some gentle heart's bars undoing. 


Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair 


Thou dost, enter, love-crowned, and there 


domain, 


Sittest love-glorified!— Rule kindly. 


The tall dark mountains, and the deep- 


Tenderly over thy kingdom fair ; 


toned seas 


For we that love, ah! we love so blindlv. 


Join in this solemn, universal song. 


Philip, my king! 


— O, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in 



i 



r 



OF POETRV AND SONG. 



145 



From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moon- 
light; 
'Tis floating in days setting glories; night 
Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent 

step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our 

ears ; 
Night and the dawn, bright day and 

thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 
As one vast, mystic instrument are touched 
By an unseen living Hand, and conscious 

cords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee : 
— The dying hear it; and as sounds of 

earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing 

souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Richard PI. Dana 



THE WORLD IS VERY EVIL. 

The world is very evil. 

The times are waxing late, 
Be sober and keep vigil. 

The Judge is at the gate; 
The Judge Who comes in mercy. 

The Judge Who comes with might. 
Who comes to end the evil, 

Who comes to crown the right. 

Arise, arise, good Christian, 

Let right to wrong succeed ; 
Let penitential sorrow 

To heavenly gladness lead. 
To light that has no evening, 

That knows nor moon nor sun, 
'^he light so new and golden. 

The light that is but one. 

O home of fadeless splendor. 
Of flowers that fear no thorn, 

Where they shall dwell as children 
Who here as exiles mourn ; 



'Midst power that knows no limit. 
Where wisdom has no bound, 

The Beatific Vision 

Shall glad the Saints around. 

O happy, holy portion. 

Reflection for the blest. 
True vision of true beauty, 

True cure of the distrest: 
Strive, man, to win that glory; 

Toil, man to gain that light; 
Send hope before to grasp it. 

Till hope be lost in sight. 

O sweet and blessed country. 

The home of God's elect! 
O sweet and blessed country 

That eager hearts expect! 
JESU, in mercy bring us 

To that dear land of rest; 
Who art with God the Father, 

And Spirit, ever blest. 



Anonymous, 



TOUJOURS AMOUR. 

Prithke tell me, Dimple-chin, 
At what age does Love begin .? 
Your blue eyes have scarcely seerv 
Summers three, my fairy queen. 
But a miracle of sweets. 
Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
Show the little archer there 
Hidden in your pretty hair; 
When dids't have a heart to win.^ 
Prithee tell me. Dimple-chin! 

" Oh !" the rosy lips reply, 

" I can tell you if I try, 

'Tis so long I can't remember: 

Ask some younger lass than I!" 

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-face, 

Do your heart and head keep pace.^ 

When does hoary Love expire. 

When do frosts put out the fire.-* 

Can its embers burn below 

All that chill December snow? 



146 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Care jou still soft hands to press, 
Bonny hands to smooth and bless? 
When does Love give up the chase? 
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-face !" 

" Ah!" the wise old lips reply, 
Youth may pass and strength may die ; 
But of Love I can't foretoken : 
Ask some older sage than I !" 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 



A DIRGE. 

A few frail summers had touched thee, 

As they touch the fruit; 
Not so bright as thy hair the sunshine. 

Not so sweet as thy voice the lute. 
Hushed the voice, shorn the hair, all is 
over: 

An urn of white ashes remains; 
Nothing else save the tears in your eyes. 

And our bitterest bitterest pains! 

We garland thee now with white roses. 
Both incense and gums on the shrine. 

Play old tunes with the saddest of closes, 
Dear tunes that once were thine! 

But in vain, all in vain; 

Thou art gone — we remain ! 

R. H. Stoddard. 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

O say, can you see by the dawn's early 
light 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's 
last gleaming.'' — 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars 
through the perilous fight. 

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gal- 
lantly streaming! 

And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- 
ing in air, 

Gave proof through the night that our flag 
was still there; 

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet 
wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave? 



On that shore, dimly seen through the mists 
of the deep, 

Where the foes haughty host in dread si- 
lence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the tow- 
ering steep. 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now dis- 
closes? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 
first beam. 

In full glory reflected, now shines on the 
stream ; 

'Tis the star-spangled banner! O, long may 
it wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly 
swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's con- 
fusion 

A home and a country should leave us no 
more ? 

Their blood has washed out their foul foot- 
steps' pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of flight or the gloom of 
the grave; 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
doth wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of 
the brave! 

O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand 
Between their loved homes and the war's 

desolation ! 
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the 

Heaven-rescued land 
Praise the Power that hath made and pre- 
served us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it 

is just. 
And this be our motto, " In God is our 

trust;" 
And the star spangled banner in ti-iumph 

shall wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of 

the brave! 

Francis Scott Key. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



147 



DANIEL GRAY. 

SUPPOSED TO BE A PORTRAIT OF THE 
poet's FATHER. 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven 
For whose sweet rest I huniblj hope and 

In the great company of tlie forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

I knew him well; in truth, few knew him 
better; 
For my young eyes oft read for him the 
word, 
And saw how meekly from the crystal 
letter 
He drank the life of his beloved Lord. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his freight of gratitude, 

Nor was he called among the gifted 

In the prayer meetings of the neighbor- 
Iiood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and 
phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday 
rhymes; 
And I suppose that in his prayers and 
graces, 
I've heard them all at least a thousand 
times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his mo- 
tions. 
His home-spun habit, and his silver 
hair, — 
And hear the language of his trite devo- 
tions. 
Rising behind his straight-backed kitchen 
chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sound- 
ed— 
•" Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to 
faint!" 



And how the " conquering and to conquer" 
rounded 
The loftier aspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve 
him. 
He never kissed his children — so they 
say ; 
And finest scenes of rarest flowers would 
move him 
Less than a horse-shoe picked up in the 
way. 

He had a heartv hatred of oppression, 

And righteous word for sin of every kind ; 
Alas, that the transgessors and transgres- 
sion 
Were linked so closely in his honest 
mind! 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress. 

And pitied men whose views of Christian 
duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within 

him; 

And I am told that when his Charley died. 

Nor nature's need, nor gentle word could 

win him 

From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charley, 
They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in 
his hair, 
And on his breast a rose-bud gathered 
early. 
And guessed, but did not know who 
placed it there. 

Honest, faithful, constant in his calling. 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace. 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of falling, 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 



148 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



A practical old man, and yet a dreamer; 
He thought that in some strange, unlock- 
ed for way 
His mighty P'riend in heaven, the great 
Redeemer, 
Would honor him -with wealth some 
golden daj. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit 
Until in death his eyes grew dim, 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit 
The heaven of wealth long garnered up 
for him. 

So, if I ever win the home in heaven 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and 
pray. 

In the good company of the forgiven 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

Dr. J. G. Holland. 



HOW LONG. 

My God, it is not fretfulness 

That makes me say, " How long?" 

It is not heaviness of heart 
That hinders me in song; 

'T is not despair of truth and right, 
Nor coward dread of wrong. 

But how can I, with such a hope 

Of glory and of home, 
With such a joy before my eyes, 

Not wish the time were come, — 
Of years the jubilee, of days 

The Sabbath and the sum 

These years, what ages they have been ! 

This lite, how long it seems! 
And how can I, in evil days. 

Mid unknown hills and streams. 
But sigh for those of home and heart 

And visit tiiem in dreams.' 



Yet peace, my heart, and hush, my tongue; 

Be calm, my troubled breast; 
Each restless hour is hastening on 

The everlasting rest: 
Thou knowest that the time thy God 

Appoints for thee is best. 

Let faith, not fear, nor fretfulness, 
Awake the cry, " How Long.?" 

Let no faint-heartedness of soul 
Damp thy aspiring song: 

Right comes, truth dawns, the night departs- 
Of error and of wrong. 

HORATIUS BONAR. 



THE GIFTS OF GOD. 

When God at first made man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by, 
Let us (said he) pour on him all we can: 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 

Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way ; 
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor,. 

pleasure : 
When almost all was out, God made a stay,. 
Perceiving that, alone, of all his treasure,. 

Rest in the bottom lay. 

For if I should (said He) 
Bestow this jewel also on my creature. 
He would adore My gifts instead of Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature : 

So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness: 
Let him be rich and weary, that, at least. 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to My breast. 

George Herbert. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



149 



THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Her cap, far whiter than the driven 

snow, 
Embehii right meet of decency does 

\ ield : 
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trowe, 
As is the harebell that adorns the field : 
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does 

wield 
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear 

entwined, 
With dark distrust, and sad repentance 

filled; 
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction 

joined, 
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement 

unkind. 

****** 

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 
thrown; 

A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air: 

'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 

'Twas her own country bred the flock so 
fair, 

'Twas her own labor did the fleece pre- 
pare; 

And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged 
around, 

Through pious awe, did term it passing- 
rare ; 

For they in gaping wonderment abound, 
And think , no doubt, she been the greatest 
weight on ground. 

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 

Goodv, good woman, gossip, n'aunt for- 
sooth. 

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; 

Yet these she challenged, these she held 
right dear: 

Ne would esteem him act as mought be- 
hove, 

"Who should not honored eld with these 
revere ; 



For never title yet so mean could prove, 
But there was eke a mind which did that 
title love 

One ancient hen she took delight to 

feed, 
The plodding patern of the busy dame; 
Which, ever and anon, impelled by 

need. 
Into her school, begirt with chickens, 

came! 
Such favor did her past deportment 

claim : 
And, if Neglect had lavished on the 

ground 
Fragment of bread, she would collect the 

same ; 
For well she knew, and quaintly could 

expound, 
What sin it were to waste the smallest 

crumb she found. 

Herbs too she knew, and well of each 

could speak 
That in her garden sipped the silvery 

dew ; 
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy 

streak ; 
But herbs for use, and physic, not a few. 
Of grav renown, within those borders 

grew : 
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme. 
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful 

hue; 
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; 
And more I fain would sing, disdaining 

here to rhyme. 

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung. 
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 

around : 
And pungent radish, biting infant's 

tongue ; 
And plaintain ribbed, that heals the 

reaper's wound ; 
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posy 

found, 



150 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And lavender, whose spikes of azure 

blooin 
Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound, 
To lurk amidst the labors of her loom, 
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle 

rare perfume. 

William Shenstone. 



A FORTRESS FIRM. 

A FORTRESS firm in God our Lord, 

A sure defence and weapon; 
Prompt he. p in need He doth aftbrd, 

Let happen what may happen. 
Our ancient wicked foe. 
Full of wrath doth go. 

With much craft and might 
In horrid armour dight; 
On earth is not h-is fellow. 

Of our own might we nothing can; 

We lie forlorn dejected; 
There fights for us the rightful Man, 

By God himself elected. 

Dost thou inquire His name.-* 

Jesus Christ.'* The same! 

Lord of Hosts is He, 

Besides Him none can be: 

'Tis He the field that keepeth. 

And were this world of devils full, 

For our destruction eager, 
That should not our firm faith annul; 

We would abide their leaguer. 
The Prince of this lost world. 
From his empire hurl'd. 

Though with rage he roar, 
Is judged and can no more; 
A word shall overthrow him. 

Hold fast that word which must remain. 
Let no dark doubt invade us; 

He will be with us on the plain, 
With gifts and grace to aid us. 

Let life and honour fall. 



Let them take our all, 

Still our course we'll keep. 
No prize from us they'll reap; 

For us the kingdom waiteth. 

Martin Luther. 



A CHILD OF SEVEN. 

All the bells of heaven may ring, 
All the birds of heaven may sing. 
All the winds on earth may bring 

All sweet sounds together; 
Sweeter far than all things heard. 
Hand of harper, tone of bird, 
Sound of woods at sundown stirred, 
Welling water's winsome word, 

Wind in wan, warm weather. 

One thing yet there is that none 
Hearing ere its chimes be done, 
Knows not well the sweetest one, 

Heard of man beneath the sun. 
Hoped in Heaven hereafter; 
Soft and strong and loud and light, 
Very round and very light, 
Heard from morning's rosiest height 
When the soul of all delight 

Fills a child's clear laughter. 

Golden bells of welcome rolled 
Never forth such notes, nor told 
Hours so blithe in tones so bold, 
And the radiant mouth of gold. 

Here that rings forth heaven. 
If the golden-crested wren 
V/ere a nightingale — why, then, 
Something seen and heard of men 
Might be half as sweet as when 

Laughs a child of seven. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



151 



THE DEATH-BED. 

We watched her breathing through the 
night, — 

Her breathing soft and low, — 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied, — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad. 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed; — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



GOOD LUCK AND BAD LUCK. 



FROM THE GERMAN. 



Good Luck is the gayest ot all gay girls. 
Long- in one place she will not stay, 

Back from her brow she strokes the curls, 
Kisses you quick and flies away. 

But Madame Bad Luck soberly comes 
And stays, — no fancy has she for flitting, — 

Snatches of true love-songs she hums. 
And sits by your bed, and brings her 
knitting. 

John Hay. 



MOONLIGHT IN SUMMER. 

Low on the utmost boundary of the sight, 
The rising vapors catch the silver light; 
Thence fancy measures, as they parting fly 
Which first will throw its shadow on the 

eye, 
Passing the source of light; and thence 

away. 
Succeeded quiA by brighter still than they. 
For yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
(In a remote sky still more serene) 
Others, detached in ranges througli the air. 
Spotless as snow and countless as they're 

fair; 
Scattered immensely wide from east to west. 
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest. 
These, to the rajitured mind, aloud proclaim 
Their mighty Shepherd's everlasting name,' 
And thus the loiterer's utmost stretch of sou) 
Climbs the still clouds, or passes those tha? 

roll. 
And loosed imagination soaring goes 
High o'er his home and all his little woes, 

Robert Bloomfield. 



GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORN- 
ING. 

A FAIR little girl sat under a tree. 
Sewing as long as her eyes could see; 
Then smoothed her work, and folded it 

right, 
And said, "Dear work! Good Night! 

Good Night!" 

Such a number of rooks came over her 

head. 
Crying, " Caw! Caw!" on their way to bed; 
She said, as she watched tlieir curious flight, 
"Little black things! Good Night! Good 

Night!" 



153 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



^\ 



The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed : 
The sheep's "Bleat! bleat!" came over the 

road; 
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, 
"Good little girl! Good Night! Good 

Night!" 

She did not say to the Sun, " Good night!" 
Though she saw him there, like a ball of 

light; 
For she knew he had God's time to keep. 
All over the world, and never could sleep. 

The tall pink fox-glove bowed his head — 
The violets curtsied, and went to bed; 
And good little Lucy tied up her hair, 
And said, on her knees, her favourite 
prayer. 

And while on her pillow she softly lay, 
She knew nothing more till again it was 

day; 
And all things said to the beautiful Sun, 
" Good Morning! Good Morning! our work 

is begun!" 

Lord Houghton. 



THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. 

Late at e'en, drinking the wine, 

And ere they paid the lawing, 
They set a combat them between, 

To fight it in the dawing. 

" Oh stay at hame, my noble lord! 

Oh stay at hame, my marrow! 
My cruel brother will you betray 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow." 

"Oh fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! 
Oh fare ye weel, my Sarah! 



For I maun gae, though I ne'er return, 
Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 

She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, 
As oft she had done before, oh ; 

She belted him with his noble brand. 
And he's away to Yarrow. 

As he gaed up the Tennies bank, 

1 wot be gaed wi' sorrow. 
Till, down in the den, he spied nine armed 
men. 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 

" Oh come ye here to part your land, 

The bonnie forest thorough? 
Or come ye here to wield j'our brand. 

On the dowie houms of Yarrow.'" — 

" I come not here to part my land. 
And neither to beg nor borrow; 

I come to wield my noble brand. 
On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. 

" If I see all, ye're nine to ane ; 

And that's an unequal marrow : 
Yet will I fight, while lasts mv brand. 

On the bonnie banks of Yarrow," 

Four lias he hurt, and five has slain, 
On the bloody braes of Yarrow, 

Till that stubborn knight came him behind 
And ran his body thorough, 

" Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, 

And tell your sister Sarah, 
To come and lift lier leafu' lord ; 

He's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." — 

" Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu' dream : 

I fear there will be sorrow! 
I dreamed I pu'd the heather green, 

Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. 

"O gentle wmd, that bloweth south, 
From where my love repaireth. 

Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, 
And tell me how he farethl 











, 






, 


"" 


'"^'"" 




1 " OF POETR2 


' AND SO JVC. 153 








•*' But in the glen strive armed men : 


And back to that pure glory 






They've wrought me dole and sorrow; 


Whxh in the eye of faith 








They've slain — the comeliest knight they've 


Surrounds the simple story 








slain — 


Of Thy pure life and death. 








He bleeding lies on Yarrow." 


Not all the dreams of sages 








As she sped down yon high, high hill, 


Who sought in vain to see. 








1 She gaed wi' dole and sorrow. 


Nor all the yearning ages. 








i And in the den spied ten slain men, 


Had formed a thought of Thee — 








i On the dowie banks of Yarrow. 


Of love so sweet and tender. 
Of heart so strong and leal, 








She kissed his cheeks, she kaimed his hair, 
She searched his wounds all thorough; 


Or such sublime surrender 
Of self to others' weal. 








She kissed them, till her lips grew red, 










On the dowie houms of Yarrow. 


The old heroic stories. 

The tales of woman's truth, 








1 " Now baud your tongue, my daughter dear! 


And all the purest glories 
Of courage, patience, ruth. 








For a' this breeds but sorrow; 


Which moved the world the deepest, 








I'll wed ye to a better lord. 


Thou lightly bar'st away. 








Than him ye lost on Yarrow." — 


And in Thy brightness keepest. 
Like starlight locked in day. 








"Oh baud yoiw tongue, my father dear! 










Ye mind me but of sorrow; 


And now where'er the motion 








A fairer rose did never bloom 


Of goodness stirs a soul. 








Than now lies cropped on Yarrow." 


It turns to Thy devotion. 








1 

Anonymous. 


A needle to its pole. 
For Thou hast rendered real 

To sight and so to hope, 
The shadowy-seen ideal 














HYMN TO CHRIST: 


With which we could not cope. 








AS THE REVEALER OF LOVE. 


To day Thy standard flowing, 
A larger host would bring. 








There is no love like Thy love, 


To follow with its going. 








i Who lovest to the cross ; 


Than ever followed king; 








No love so pure and high love 


From every tribe and nation 








1 As Thine who countest loss 


Come out in quenchless faith, 








Whatever pleasure bringeth 


And ardent consecration. 








1 Of sweetness and caress. 


To move with Thee to death. 








And smil'st while sorrow stingeth, 










If sorrowing Thou canst bless. 


Whatever pure and holy 
On earth is found, to Thee 








O love beyond all praising! 


In worship fond and lowly 








O life with love made fairi 


Bends down the willing knee. 








My heart is faint with gazing 


And every fair aftection. 








Across the radiant air, i 


And aspiration sweet, 














^ 













154 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And gentle recollection, 
Instinctive finds Thj feet. 

How, O Thou wondrous Being, 

Thy life with ours is wrought; 
Thou fillest all our seeing. 

And shapest all our thought. 
In everything around us 

Of life and earth, we see 
The truth that Thou hast found us, 

The presence. Lord, of Thee. 

For earth, our home, is brighter 

That Thou hast touched its clay; 
The very day is lighter 

From some supremer day : 
And night is softly ringing 

In all her depths afar. 
With starry armies singing 

The song of Bethlehem's Star. 

I cannot tell the manner 

Thou fillest all to me. 
How every sunset banner 

Is blazoned out with Thee, 
And seems before the portals 

Of some diviner west. 
To marshal weary mortals 

Onward into rest. 

Apart in forest bowers. 

When Spring is laughing by, 
I see Thee in the flowers 

That open to the sky ; 
Each standing meekly, purely 

Upon the hallowed sod, 
And whispering low — O surely 

I have been touched by God! 

For hence is no forgetting 

That such a love has been. 
And thought keeps ever setting 

Each pleasant thing and scene 
In its sublime relation 

To pure and perfect love ; 
Till all the lower creation 

Grows one with that above. 



There is no love like Thy love — 

Like Thy love. Lord, to me; 
O live in me that my love 

May rise and flow to Thee! 
With all Thy taking, take me 

Unto Thy inmost heart. 
And by Thy love power make me 

What Thou, O Savior, art! 

Wade Robinson, 



THE DAY IS DONE. 

The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wrings of night. 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in its flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me^ 

That my heart cannot resist — 

A feeling of sadness and longing 

That's not akin to pain. 
But resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come read to me some poem. 
Some simple and heartfelt lay. 

That shall soothe this restless feelings 
And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters. 

Not from the bards sublime. 
Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time. 

For like strains of martial music. 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor; 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humble poet. 

Whose songs gush from his heart 

As showers from the clouds of summ^ 
Or tears from the eye-lids start. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



153 



Who through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care. 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhvme of the poet 

The beauty of tliy voice. 

And the night shalt be filled with music, 
And the cares that infest tlie day 

Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS 
SOUL. 

Vital spark of heav'nly flame! 
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: 
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying. 
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying! 

Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 

And let me languish into life. 

Hark! they whisper; angels say, 
" Sister spirit, come away ! " 
What is this absorbs me quite .^ 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath.'' 
Tell me, my soul, can tliis be death .'' 

The world recedes; it disappears! 
Heav'n opens on my eyes! my ears 

With sounds serapliic ring: 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! 
O grave! where is tliy victory.'' 

O death! where is thy sting.' 

Alexander Pope. 



RING OUT THE OLD, RING IN THE 

NEW. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
The flying clouds, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the night — 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new — 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,. 

f^or those that here we see no more,. 

Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause. 

And. ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times: 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes^ 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The cix'ic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old. 

Ring in tlie thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land — 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



1 

156 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


THE COQUETTE. 


THE RIGHT MUST WIN. 


Sweet coquette! so blandly smiling; 


O, IT is hard to work for God, 


Ciiarmint^ still, and still beguiling! 


To rise and take His part 


Oft I swore to love thee never, 


Upon this battle-field of earth, 


Yet I love thee more than ever! 


And not sometimes lose heart. 


Why that little wanton blushing. 


He hides Himself so wondrously, 


Glancing eje and bosom Hushing? 


As though there were no God; 


Flushing warm, and wily glancing — 


He is least seen when all the powers 


All is lovely, all entrancing! 


Of ill are most abroad. 


Turn away those lips of blisses, — 
I am poisoned by thy kisses! 
Yet, again, ah! throw them to me: 
Ruin's sweet when they undo me! 


Or He deserts us at the hour 

The fight is all but lost; 
And seems to leave us to ourselves 

Just when we need Him most. 


Oh! be less, be less enchanting; 




Let some little grace be wanting; 


Ill masters good, good seems to change 


Let mine eyes when I'm expiring, 


To ill with greatest ease; 


Gaze awhile without admiring! 


And, worst of all, the good with good 


Thomas Moore. 


Is at cross-purposes. 




Ah! God is other than we think; 




EARLY FRIENDSHIP. 


His ways are far above. 
Far beyond reason's height, and reached 


The half-seen memories of childish days. 


Only by childlike love. 


When jiains and pleasures lightly came and 




went; 


Workman of God! O, lose not heart, 


The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent 


But learn what God is like; 


In fearful wanderings through forbidden 


And in flie darkest battle-field 


ways; 


Thou shalt know where to strike. 


The vague but manly wish to tread the maze 




Of life to noble ends, — whereon intent, 


Thrice blest is He to whom is given 


Asking to know tor what man here is sent, 


The instinct that can tell 


The bravest heart must often pause, and 


That God is on the field when He 


gaze,— 


Is most invisible. 


The firm resolve to seek the chosen end 




Of manhood's judgment cautious and ma- 


Blest, too, is He who can divine 


ture, — 


Where real right doth lie. 


Each of these viewless bonds binds friend 


And dares to take the side that seems 


to friend 


Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 


With strength no selfish purpose can se- 




cure: 


For right Js right, since God is God; 


My happy lot is this, that all attend 


And right the day must win; 


That friendship which first came, and which 


To doubt would be disloyalty, 


shall last endure. 


To falter would be sin! 


Aubrey De Vere. 


Frederic \yiLLiAM Faber. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



157 



THOUGHT. 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 
Feeling deeper than all thought; 

Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

"We are spirits clad in veils; 

Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

-Heart to heart was never known ; 

Mind with mind did never meet; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered lie; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream.? 

What our wise philosophy 
But the glancing of a dream .'' 

'Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought, 
'Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world hath taught, 

•Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 
And bv inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth, 

We, like parted drops of rain. 
Swelling till they meet and ru 

•Shall be all absorbed again. 
Melting, flowing into one. 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 



ECHO! 

I STOOD on the banks of a swift-flowing 
river. 
While I mark'd its clear current roll 
speedily past. 
It seemed to my fancy for ever repeating 
That the dearest enjoyments of life would 
not last. 
Oh! tell me, I said, rapid stream of the 
valley, 
That bear'st in thy course tlie blue waters 
away, 
Can the I'oys of liie's morning awake but 
to vanish. 
Can the feelings of love be all doom'd to 
decay ? 
An Echo repeated — " All doom'd to de- 
cay." 

Flow on in thy course, rapid stream of the 
valley. 
Since the pleasures of life we so quickly 
resign, 
My heart shall rejoice in the wild scenes of 
nature 
And friendship's delights, while they yet 
may be mine. 
Must all the sweet charms of mortality 
perish, 
And friendship's endearments — ah! will 
they not staj- .'' 
The simple enchantments of soft-blooming 
nature. 
And the pleasures of mind — must they 
too fade away.'' 
The Echo slow answered — " They too fade 
away." 

Then where, I exxlaimed, is there hope for 
the mourner, 
A balm for his sorrow, a smile t^r his 
grief.' 
If beautiful scenes like the present hall 
vanish, 
Where, where shall we seek for a • '.ain 
relief.' 



158 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



nf 



Oh ! fly, said my soul, to the feet of thy 
Savior, 
Believe in His mercy, for pardon now 
pray ; 

With Him there is fullness of joy and sal- 
vation, 
Thy gladness shall live, and shall never 
decay ! 

The Echo ^aid sweetl) — " Shall never de- 
cay." 

Anonymous. 



SMALL BEGINNINGS. 

A TRAVELER through a dusty road strewed 

acorns on the lea; 
And one took root and sprouted up, and 

grew into a tree. 
Love sought its shade at evening time, to 

breathe its early vows ; 
And age was pleased, in heats of noon, to 

bask beneath its boughs ; 
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, 

the birds sweet music bore; 
It stood, a glory in its place, a blessing 

evermore. 

A little spring had lost its w^ay amid the 
grass and fern, 

A passing stranger scooped a well, where 
weary men might turn ; 

He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle 
at the brink; 

He thought not of the deed he did, but 
judged that toil might drink. 

He passed again, and lo! the well, by sum- 
mers never dried, 

Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 
and saved a life beside. 

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 

'twas old, and yet 'twas new 
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in 

being true. 



It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its 

light became 
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory 

flame. 
The thought was small; its issues great; 

a watchfire on the hill. 
It sheds its radiance far adown, and cheers- 

the valley still! 

A nameless man, amid a crowd that 
thronged the daily mart, 

Let fall a word of Hope and Love, un- 
studied, from the heart; 

A whisper on the tumult thrown — a transi- 
tory breath, — 

It raised a brother from the dust — it saved 
a soul from death. 

O germ ! O fount ! O word of love ! O 
thought at random cast ! 

Ye were but little at the first, but mighty 
at the last. 

Charles Mackay. 



FEAR NOT. 

O BROTHER Man! fear not; though hatfr 
and wrong 
And want and death hem round thy 
perilous path. 
Cease not to warble forth thine angel-song;. 
Fear not old falsehood's wrath. 

Whether we face the lions in the den. 
Or sail o'er martyrdom's red, fiery seas, 

Around us camp, invisible to men, 
" The cloud of witnesses " 

No chains can bind, no flames consume the 
soul ; 
God's breath dissolves the avalanche of 
ill. 
When the dark clouds of suffering round 
us roll. 
He sends His angels still. 

Thomas L. HarriSv 




HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleasest best Thjsel', 

Send ane to Heaven, and ten to Hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for onie guid or ill 

They've done afore Thee ! 

1 bless and praise Thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands Thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore Thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burning an' a shining light, 
To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get such exaltation.? 
I, wha deserve such just damnation. 

For broken laws, 
Five thouand years 'fore my creation. 

Through Adam's cause. 

When frae my mither's womb I fell. 
Thou might-hae plunged me into Hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail. 

In burnin' lake, 
Where damned Devils roar and yell, 

Chained to a stake. 

Yet I am here a chosen sample. 

To show Thy grace is great and ample; 

j'm here a pillar in Thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a" Thy tiock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear. 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, 
And singing there, and dancing here, 

Wi' great and sma' : 
For I am keepit by Thy fear. 

Free frae them a'. 

But yet, O Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fashed wi' fleshly lust, 



An' sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, — 

Vile self gets in; 
But Thou remembers we are dust, 

Defiled in sin. 



Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn 

Beset Thy servant e'en and morn. 

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted : 
If sae. Thy hand maun e'en be borne, 

Until Thou lift it. 

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, 
For here Thou hast a chosen race; 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace. 

An' public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, 
Yet has sae monie takin' arts, 

Wi' great and sma', 
Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 

An' when we chastened him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the whole warld in a roar 

O' laughin' at us; — 
Curse Thou his basket and his store. 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' prayer, 

Against that presby'ry o' Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand. Lord, make it bare, 

Upo' their heaxls; 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare. 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that glib-tongued Aiken, 

My very heart and soul are quakin', 

To think how we stood sweatin', shakin', 

An' swat wi' dread. 
While he wi' hinging lips gaed snakin', 

An' hid his head. 



160 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


Lord, in tlie day o' vengeance try him, 


'Tis mercy bids thee go; 


Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 


For thou ten thousand thousand years 


And pass not in Thy mercy by 'em. 


Hast seen the tide of human tears, 


Nor hear their prayer : 


That shall no longer flow. 


But tor Thy people's sake destroy 'em, 
And dinna spare. 


What though beneath thee man put forth. 




His pomp, his pride, his skill; 


But Lord, remember me and mine 


And arts that made fire, flood and earth 


Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excelled by nane, 
An' a' the glory shall be Thine, 

Amen, Amen. 


The vassals of his will ; 
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
Thou dim, discrowned king of day: 

For all those trophied arts 
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang 


Robert Burns. 


Heal'd not a passion or a pang 
Entailed on human hearts. 




Go! let oblivion's curtain fall 
Upon the stage of men, 




THE LAST MAN. 


Nor with thy rising beams recall 


All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 


Lite's tragedy again. 
It's piteous pageants bring not back 


The sun himself must die. 


Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 


Before this mortal shall assume 


Of pain anew to writhe; 


Its immortality. 


Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 


I saw a virion in my sleep 


Or mown in battle by the sword. 


That gave my spirit strength to sweep 


Like grass beneath the scythe. 


Adown the gulf of Time; 




I saw the last of human mould, 


Even I am weary in yon skies 


That shall Creation's death behold, 


To watch thy fading fire; 


As Adam saw her prime. 


Test of all sumless agonies. 




Behold not me expire. 


The sun's eye had a sickly glare. 


My lips that speak thy dirge of death — 


The earth with age was wan ; 


Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 


The skeletons of nations were 


To see thou shalt not boast. 


Around that lonely man. 


The eclipse of nature spreads my pall — 


Some had expired in fight — the brands 


The majesty of darkness shall 


Still rusted in their bony hands; 


Receive my parting ghost. 


In plague and famine some. 




Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 


This spirit shall return to Him 


And ships were drifting with the dead 


That gave its heavenly spark : 


To shores where all were dumb. 


Yet, think not, sun, it shall be dim 




When thou thyself art dark ! 


Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. 


No! it shall live again, and shine 


With dauntless words and high, 


In bliss unknown to beams of thine 


That shook the sere leaves from the wood 


By Him recalled to breath. 


As if a storm passed by. 


Who captive led captivity, 


Saying, we are twins in death, proud Sun, 


Who robbed the grave of victory, 


Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 


And took the sting from death. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



161 



Go, sun, while mercy holds me up 

On nature's awful waste, 
To drink this last and bitter cup 

Of grief that man shall taste — 
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 

On earth's sepulchral clod. 
The dark'ning universe defy 
To quench his immortality, 

Or shake his trust in God. 

Thomas Campbell. 



THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved 
a royal sport, 

And one day, as his hons fought, sat look- 
ing on the court. 

The nobles filled the benches, with the 
ladies in their pride. 

And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, 
with one for whom he sighed : 

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that 
crowning show. 

Valor and love, and a king above, and the 
royal beasts below. 

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid 

laughing jaws; 
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams 

a wind went with their paws ; 
With wallowing might and stifled roar they 

rolled on one another. 
Till all the pit with sand and mane was in 

a thunderous smother; 
The blood V foam above the bars came 

whisking through the air; 
Said Francis then," Faith, gentlemen, we're 

better here than there." 

De Lorge's love o'er heard the King, a 

beauteous lively dame. 
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, 

which always seemed the same; 



She thought, the Count, my lover, is brave 
as brave can be; 

He surely would do wondrous things to 
show his love for me; 

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the oc- 
casion is divine; 

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great 
glory will be mine. 

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, 

then looked at him and smiled; 
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among 

the lions wild; 
The leap was quick, return was quick, he 

has regained his place. 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, 

right in the lady's face. 
" By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!"' 

and lie rose from where he sat; 
" No love," quoth he, "but vanity^ sets love 

a task like that." 

Leigh Hunt. 



FUTURITY. 

And O Beloved voices, upon which 
Ours passionately call,— because ere long 
Ye break ofl'in the middle of the song 
We sang together softly, to enrich 
The poor world with a sense of love, anc 

witch 
The heart out of things evil ! I am strong 
Knowing ye are not lost for aye among 
The hills with last year's thrush. God 

keeps a niche 
In heaven to hold our idols; and albeit 
He brake them to our faces, and denied 
That our close kisses should impair their 

white, 
I know we shall behold them raised, com- 
plete, 
The dust swept from their beauty, glorified 
New Memnons, singing in the great God- 
light, 

E. B. Browning. 



162 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOIC 



O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL. 

O' Lassie ayont the hill ! 
Come ower'the tap o' the hill, 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 
For I want ye sair the nicht, 
I'm necdin' ye sair the nicht, • 
For I'm tired and ^ick o' mysel' 
A body's sel's the sairest weicht, 
O Lassie come ower the hill! 

•Gin a body could give a thocht o' grace, 

And no a sel' ava' 

I'm sick o' my heid, and my ban's and my 

face, 
An my thochts, and mysel' and a'; 
I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; 
The licht gangs by Avi' a hiss; 
For through my e'en the sunbeams fa', 
But my weary heart they miss. 

Lassie ayont the hill, 
Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill ; 

Bide na ayont the hill. 

For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid. 

And the sunlicht o' yer hair. 

The ghaist o' mysel' would fa' down deid, 

1 wad be mysel' nae mair. 
I wad be mysel' nae mair. 
Filled o' the sole remeid, 

Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair, 
Killed by your body and heid. 

Lassie ayont the hill, 
Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 

Bide na ayont the hill. 

But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'ed you, 

1 would ring my ain deid knell ; 
Mysel' wad vanish, shot thro' and thro' 
\Vi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', 

By the licht aneath your broo, 

I wud dee to mysel,' and ring my bell, 

And only live in you! 

O Lassie ayont the hill! 
Come ower the tap o the hill, 



Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 
For I want ye sair the night, 
I'm needin ye sair the night, 
For I'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
A body's sel's the sairest weicht, 
O Lassie come ower the hill. 

George Macdonald. 



THE FALLS OF NIAGARA. 

The thoughts are strange that crowd into 

my brain 
While I look upward to thee. It would 

seem 
As if God poured thee from his hollow 

hand, 
And hung his bow upon thine awful front, 
And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed 

to him 
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Savior's sake, 
The sound of many waters. And had bade 
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back. 
And notch his centuries in the eternal 

rocks. 



Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we. 

That hear the question of that voice sub- 
lime .'' 

O, what are all the notes that ever rung 

From wars' vain trumpet, by thy thunder- 
side.-* 

Yea, what is all the riot man can make 

In this short life, to thy unceasing roar .? 

And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to 
Him 

W^ho drowned a world, and heaped the 
waters far 

Above the loftiest mountain.^ — A light 
wave 

That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's 
power. 



J. G. C. Brainerd. 



AV THE BALM AND THE BLOSSOMING. 
It's O my heart, my heart, 

To be out in the sun and sing! 
To sing and shout in the fields about, 
In the balm and the blossominir! 




OF rOETRT AND SONd. 



165 



ALPINE HEIGHTS. 

FKOM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER. 

On Alpine heights the love of God is shed; 
He paints the morning red, 
The flowerets white and blue, 
And feeds them with His dew. 

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant 
heath, 
The lovliest breezes breathe; 
So free and pure the air, 
His breath seems floating there. 

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights, beneath His mild blue 
eye, 

Still vales and meadows lie; 

The soaring glacier's ice 

Gleams like a paradise. 
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets 
flow; 
There the bold chamois go; 
On giddy crags they stand, 
And drink from His own hand. 

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights, in troops all white as 
snow, 
The sheep and wild goats go ; 
There, in the solitude. 
He fills their hearts with food. 

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. 

On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his 
herd ; 
His Shepherd is the Lord ; 
For He who feeds the sheep 
Will sure His off'spring keep. 

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells 

Charles T. Brooks. 



THE WHITE SQUALL. 

The sea was bright, and the bark rode well; 
The breeze bore the tone of the vesper bell; 
'Twas a gallant bark with a crew as brave 
As ever launched on the heaving wave. 
She shone in the light of declining dav, 
And each sail was set, and each heart was 

gay- 

They neared the land where in beauty 

smiles 
The sunny shore of the Grecian Isles; 
All thought of home, of that welcome dear 
Which soon should greet each wanderer's 

ear; 
And in fancy joined the social throng 
In the festive dance and the joyous song 

A white cloud glides through the azure 

sky,— 
What means that wild despairing cry? 
Farewell the visioned scenes of home! 
The cry is " Help," where no help can 

come; 
F'or the White Squall rides on the surging 

wave, 
And the bark is gulfed in an ocean grave. 

Bryan Wallkr Procter (Barry Corn- 
wall.) 



TIRED MOTHERS. 

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee; 

Your tired knee that has so much to bear, 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly, 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair, 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers folding yours so 
tight. 
You do not prize this blessing over-much; 

You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness! A year ago 
I did not see it as I do to-day. 



166 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



We are so dull and thankless, and too slow 
To catch the sunshine, till it slips away. 
And now it seems surpassing strange to me 
That, while I wore the badge of mother- 
hood, 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly. 

The little child that brought me only 
good. 



And if, some night when you sit down to 
rest. 
You miss the elbow from your tired knee, 
The restless, curly head from ofi' your 
breast 
The lisping tongue that chattered con- 
stantly. 
If from your own the dimpled hands had 
slipped 
And ne'er would nestle in your palm 
again. 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped 
I could not blame you for your heartache 
then. 



I wonder so, that mothers ever fret 

At little children clinging to their gown ; 
Or that the footprints, when the days are 
wet. 

Are ever black enough to make them 
frown. 
If I could find a little muddy boot. 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor, 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my home once more. 



If I could mend a broken cart to-day. 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 
There is no woman in God's world could sav 

She was more blissfully content than I. 
But, oh! the dainty pillow next my own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
My singing birdling from its nest is flown, 

The little boy I used to kiss is dead. 

Anonymous. 



HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL. 

[Helen Irving', a young' lady of exquisite beauty 
and accomplishments daug^hter of the Laird ot Kirk- 
connel, in Annadale, 'was betrothed to Adam Flem- 
ing, of Kirkpatrick, a yonn^ gentleman of rank 
and fortune in that neighborhood. Walking with 
her lover on the sweet banks oi the Kirtle, she was 
murdered by a disappointed and sanguinary rival. 
1 his catastrophe took place in the reign of Mary 
(^een of Scots, and is the subject of three different 
ballads. The first two are old, the third is the com* 
position of John Maync, author of the " Siller 
Gun."] 

I WISH I were where Helen lies. 
For, night and day on me she cries; 
And, like an angel, to the skies. 

Still seems to beckon me! 
For me she lived, for me she sighed, 
For me she wished to be a bride ; 
For me in life's sweet morn she died, 

On fair Kirkcotinel-Lee! 

Where Kirtle waters gently wind, 
As Helen on my arm reclined, 
A rival with a ruthless mind 

Took deadly aim at me; 
My love to disappoint the foe, 
Rushed in between me and the blow; 
And now her corse is lying low 

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! 

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, 
I curse the hand by which she fell — 
The fiend who made my heaven a hell, 

And tore my love from me ! 
For if, where all these graces shine — 
Oh! if on earth there's aught divine 
My Helen all these charms were thine— 

They centered all in thee! 

Oh ! what avails it that, amain. 

I clove the assassin's head in twain; 

No peace of mind, my Helen slain. 

No resting place for me : 
I see her spirit in the air — 
I hear the shriek of wild despair, 
When murder laid her bosom bare 

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee! 



i 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 167 


Oh I when I'm sleeping in my grave, 


THE BROOKSIDE. 


And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, 




May he who life and spirit gave 


I WANDERED by the brookside. 


Unite my love and me! 


I wandered by the mill ; 


Tiien from this world of doubts and sighs, 


I could not hear the brook flow, 


My soul on wings of peace shall rise ; 


The noisy wheel was still; 


And, joining Helen in the skies, 


There was no burr of grasshopper, 


Forget Kirkconnei-Lee! 


No chirp of any bird. 




But the beating of w\y own heart 


John Mayne. 


Was all the sound I heard. 




I sat beneath the elm-tree; 

I watched the long, long shade, 






And, as it grew still longer, 


NO! 


I did not feel afraid ; 




For I listened for a footfall, 


No sun — no moon! 


I listened for a word, — 


No morn — no noon — 


But the beating of my own heart 


No dawn — no dust — no proper time of 


Was all the sound I heard. 


day — 




No sky — no earthly view — 


He came not, — no, he came not, — 


No distance looking blue — 


The night came on alone, — 


No road — no street — no " t'otherside the 


The little stars sat one by one. 


way"— 


Each on his golden throne; 


No end to any Row — 


The evening wind passed by my cheek, 


No indications where the Crescents 


The leaves above were stirred, — 


go- 


But the beating of my own heart 


No top to any steeple — 


Was all the sound I heard, 


No recognitions of tamiliar people — 




No courtesies for showing 'em — 


Fast silent tears were flowing, 


No knowing 'em! 


When something stood behind ; 


No traveling at all — no locomotion, 


A hand was on my shoulder, — 


No inkling of the way — no notion — 


I knew its touch was kind; 


" No go " — by land or ocean — 


It drew me nearer, — nearer, — 


No mail — no post — 


We did not speak one word. 


No news from any foreign coast — 


For the beating of our own hearts 


No park — no ring — no afternoon gen- 


Was all the sound we heard. 


tility- 




No company — no nobility — 


Richard Monckton Milnes. 


No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful 


(Lord Houghton.) 


ease. 




No comfortable feol in any member — 






No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no 


1 


bees. 


HIGHLAND MARY. ' 


No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no 




birds, 
November ! 1 


Ye banks and braes and streams around 


The castle o' Montgomery, 




Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 


Thomas IIcod 


Your waters never drumlie! 



168 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



There simmer first unfauld her robes 

And there the langest tarrv ; 
For there I took the last farewoel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to m\' bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But, O, fell death's untimely frost, 

'I'hat nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
And moldcring now in silent dust 

That heart that loved me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

Robert Burns. 



HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE. 

(1571.) 

The old mayor climbed the belfry-tower, 
The ringers rang by two, by three; 

" Pull! if ye never pulled before; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. 

" Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! 

Play all your changes, all ^-our swells! 
Play uppe The Brides of Enderbyr 



Men say it was a " stolen tyde," — 
The Lord that sent it, He knows all. 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The message that the bells let fall ; 

And there was naught of strange, beside 

The flight of mews and peewits pied. 

By millions crouched on the old sea-walL 

I sat and spun within the doore; 

My thread brake oft", I raised myne eyesj 
The level sun, like rudtly ore, 

Lay sinking in the barren skies; 
And dark against day's go'den death 
She moved where Lindis wandereth, — 
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling. 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth, 
From the meads where melick grow^eth, 
Faintly came her milking-song. 

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 

" For the dews will soone be falling; 

Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 
Mellow, mellow! 

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow I 

Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Light- 
foot! 

Quit the stalks of paisley hollow. 
Hollow, hollow ! 

Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow; 

From the clovers lift your head. 

Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe. Light- 
foot ! 

Come uppe. Jetty ! rise and follow. 

Jetty, to the mil king-shed." 

If it be long— ay, long ago — 

When I beginne to think howe long, 

Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; 

And all the aire, it seemeth mee. 

Bin full of floating bells (saytb shee). 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



169 



Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 

And not a shadowe mote be seene, 
Save where, full fy ve good miles away, 
The steeple towered from out thegrecuc 
• And lo! the great hell far and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 
. That Saturday at eventide. 

The swannerds, where their sedges are. 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath; 

The shepherde lads I heard afarre, 
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth, 

Till, floating o'er the grassv sea. 

Came downe that kyndly message free, 

The Brides of Mavis Euderby. 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
And all along where Lindis flo-.vs 

To where the goodly vessels lie. 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, " And whv should this thing 
be. 

What danger lowers by land or sea.? 

They ring the tune of Euderby. 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys, warping down, — 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne ; 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee, 
Why ring T/ie Brides of Euderby? " 

I looked without, and lo! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main ; 

He raised a shout as he drew on. 
Till all the welkin rang again : 

i' Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 

" The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! 

The rising tide comes on apace; 
And bojits adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing ujipe the market-place!" 
He shook as one w ho looks on death : 



" God save you, mother!" straight he say th : 
" Where is my wife, Elizabeth.?" 

" Goodjsonne, where Lindis winds away 
With her two bairns I marked her long; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play, 
Afar I heard her milking-song." 

He looked across the grassy sea, 

To right, to left. Ho, Euderby! 

They rang T/ie Brides of Euderby. 

With that he cried and beat his breast; 

For lo! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud, — 
Shaped like a curling, snow-white cloud. 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed. 
Shook all her trembling banks amaine; 

Then madly at the eygre's breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 

Then bankes came downe with ruin and 
rout, — 

Then beaten foam flew round about, — 

Then all the miglity floods were out. 

So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, 

The heart had hardly time to beat 
Before a sh".llow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: 
The feet had hardly time to flee 
Before it brake against the knee, — 
And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night; 

The noise of bells went sweeping bv; 
I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and 
high,- 
A lurid mark, and dread to see; 
And awsome bells they were to mee, 
That in the dark rang Euderby. 

They rang the sailor lads to guide, 

P'rom roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 



170 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



n 



And I, — mj son was at my side, 

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; 
And yet lie moaned beneath his breath, 
*' O, come in life, or come in death! 

lost! my love, ElizalK'th!" 

And didst thou visit him no more? 

Thou didst, tliou didst, my daughter 
deare! 
The waters laid thee at his doore 

Ere vet the early dawn was clear: 
Thv pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Down drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea, — 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! 

To manv more than mxne and mee. 

But each will moune his own (she saith); 

But sweeter woman ne're drew breath 

Than my son's wife, Elizabeth. 

1 shall never hear lier more 
By the reedy Lindis shore 
"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling; 

I shall never hear her song 
"Cusha! Cusha!" all along 
Where the sunny Liiulis flowcth, 

Goeth, floweth ; 
From the meads where melick gioweth. 
When the water winding down 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver. 

Shiver, quiver; 
Stand beside the sobbing river. 
Sobbing, tiirobbing, in its falling 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow, 
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe Light- 
foot, 



Quit vour pipes of parsley hollow, 

Hollow, hollow, 
Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot 
From your clover lift jour head ! 
Come up, Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty to the milking shed." 

Jean Ingelow. 



A BALLAD 

TEACHING WHAT IS GENTILNESS, OR WHOM 
IS WORTHY TO BE CALLED GENTILL. 

The first stocke father of gentillness, 
What man desireth gentil for to bee. 
Must followe his trace, and all his wittes 

dres 
Vertue to love and vices for to flee, 
For unto vertue longeth dignitee, 
And not the revers falsly, dare I deme, 
All weare he miter, crowne, or diademe. 



This first stocke was full ofrightwisnes, 
Trewe of his worde, sober, pitous and free, 
Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse. 
Against the vice of slouth in honeste, 
And, but his heire love vertue as did he 
He is not gentill, though he rich seme 
All weare he miter, crowne or diademe. , 



Viceste may well be heir to old richesse, 
But there may no man, as men may wel 

see, 
Bequeathe his heire his vertue's noblenesse, 
That is appointed unto no degree, 
But to the first father in majestee, 
That maketh his heires them that him 

queme 
All wear he miter, crowne, or diademe. 

Geoffrey Chaucer. 



OF FOETRT AND SONG. 171 


CHARLIE MACHREE. 


He's sinking, he's sinking. 




O, what shall 1 do! 


Come over, coine over 


Strike out, Charlie, boldly. 


The river to me, 


Ten strokes and ye're thro'. 


If ye are my laddie, 




Bold Charlie machree. 


He's sinking, O Heaven! 




Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear; 


Here's Marj' McPherson 


I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, 


And Susy O'Linn, 


As soon as ye're here ! 


Who say ye're faint-heaited 




And dareiia ]ilunge in. 


He rises, I see him, — 




Five strokes, Charlie, mair, — 


But the dark rolling water, 


He's shaking the wet 


Though deep as the sea, 


From his bonny brown hair; 


I know willna scare ye, 




Nor keep ye tVae me; 


He conquers the current. 




He gains on the sea, — 


For stout is yer back, 


Ho, where is the swimmer 


And strong is yer arm. 


Like Charlie machree.? 


And the heart in yer bosom 




Is faithful and warm. 


Come over the river, 




But once come to me. 


Come over, come over 


And I'll love ye forever. 


The river to me. 


Dear Charlie machree! 


If ye are my laddie, 




Bold Charlie machree! 


He's sinking, he's gone, — 




O God! it is I, 


I see him, I see him ! 


It is I, who have killed him — 


He's plunged in the tide, 


Help, help! — he must die! 


His strong arms are dashing 




The big wa%es aside. 


Help, help! — ah, he rises, — 




Strike out and ye're free! 


O, the dark rolling water 


Ho, bravely done, Charlie, 


Shoots swift as the sea, 


Once more now, for me! 




But blithe is the glance 




Of his bonny blue e'e; 


Now cling to the rock. 




Now gie us yer liand, — 


And his cheeks are like roses, 


Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, 


Twa buds on a bough ; 


Ye're safe on the land ! 


Who says ye're faint-hearted, 




My brave Charlie, now? 


Come rest in my bosom. 




If there ye can sleep ; 


Ho, ho, foaming river. 


I canna speak to ye, 


' Ye may roar as ye go, 


I only can weep. 


But ye canna bear Charlie 


To the dark loch below ! 


Ye've crossed the wild river, 


, 


Ye've risked all for me. 


Come over, come over 


And I'll part frae ye never. 


The river to me, 


Dear Charlie machree ! 


My true-hearted laddie, 




My Charlie machree! 


William J. Hoppin. 



172 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE 



COTTER'S SATURDAY 
NIGHT. 



' Lei not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 
Nor g-randeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 

Gray 

My loved, my honored, imich-respected 
friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pays; 
With honest pride I scorn eacli selfish end, 
My dearest ineed a friend's esteem and 
praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless 
ways — 
What Aiken in a cottage would have 
been ; 
Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier 
there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud Avi' angry sugh; 
The short'ning winter day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the plough, 
The black'ning train o' craws to their re- 
pose. 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes — 
This night his weekly moil is at an end — 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his 
hoes. 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to 

spend ; 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does 
hameward bend. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 
Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher 
thro' 
To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle blinkin'bonnilie, 

His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's 
smile, 
The lis^iing infant piattling on his knee, 



Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile. 
And makes him qiute forget his labor and 
his toil. 



Belyve the elder bairns come drappin' in — 
At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some 
tentie rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town. 
Their, eldest hope, their Jenny, woinan 
grown. 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her 
ee. 
Comes hame, periiaps, to shew a bran new 
gown. 
Or deposite her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if the^- in liard- 
ship be. 

Wi' joy unteigned, brothers and sisters 
meet. 
An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers; 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed 
fleet; , 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful 
years — ■ 
Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the 

new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due: 



Their masters' and their mistresses' com- 
mand 

The younkers a' are warned to obey, 
An' mind their labors a\ i' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or 

An' oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway! 
An' mind ycnir duty, dul}', morn an' 
night! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore His counsel and assisting might: 
They never sought in vain who sought 
the Lord aright! 






OF POETRT AND SONG. 



173 



But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
Jenny, vvha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad came o'er the moor 
To do some errands, and convoy her 
hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's ee, and flush her 
cheek; 
VV'i' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his 
name, 
While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae 
wild, worthless rake. 



Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him 
ben — 
A strappan youth, he taks the mother's 
eye; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The fatlier cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye; 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 

But blate and faithfu', scarce can weel be- 
have; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' and 
sae grave — 

Weel pleased to think her bairn's respect- 
ed like the lave. 



O happy love! where love like this is 
found ! 
O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond com. 
pare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me tb.is de- 
clare — 
If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 
spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 
In other's arms breathe out the tender 

tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents 
the evening gale. 



Is there, in human form that bears a heart, 
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and 
truth, 
That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting vouth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts! Dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their 

child- 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their 
distraction wild? 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board ; 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
food; 
The soup their only hawkie does afford. 
That 'yont the halian snugly chews her 
cud; 
The dame brings forth in complimental 
mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained keb- 
buck fell, 
\vi aft he's pressed, an' aft he ca's it good; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was 
i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 
They, round the ingle, form a circle 
wide ; 
The sire turn's o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride: 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haiiets wearin' thin and bare; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Z\o\\ 
glide 
He wales a portion with judicious care; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says 
with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple 
guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim ; 



174 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbliiig measures 
rise, 
Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy 'o the name; 
Or nobleElgin beats the heavenward tiame — 

The sweetest far 'o Scotia's holy lays; 
Compared with these, Italian trills are 
tame; 
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures 

raise — 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's 
praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page : 
How Abraham was the friend of God on 
high; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the strokes of heaven's avenging 
ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed ; 
How, He, who bore in heaven the second 
name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His 
head; 
How His first followers and servants sped — 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a 
land ; 
1 low he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the tun a mighty angel stand, 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pro- 
nounced by heaven's command. 

Then kneeling ciown to hea\en's eternal 
king, 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays: 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant 
wing" 
That thus they all shall meet in future 
days; 



There ever bask in uncreated rays, . 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear — 

Together hymning their creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear. 
While circling time moves round in an 
eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor religion's 
pride, 
In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace except the heart! 
The power, incensed, the pageant will de- 
sert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart. 
May hear, well pleased, the language of 

the soul, 
And in His book of life the inmates poor 
enroll. 

Then homeward all take oft' their sev'ral 
way ; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 
The parent pair tlieir secret homage pay, 
And profter up to heaven the warm re- 
quest. 
That He who stills tlie raven's cham'rous 
nest, 
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the 
best, 
For them and for their little ones pro- 
vide — 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace di- 
vine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grand- 
eur springs. 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad. 
Princes and lords are but the breath of 
kings — • 
" An honest man's the noblest work of 
God;" 
And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 



OF POETR2' AND SONG. 



175 



What is a lordling's pomp? A crumbrous 
load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness re- 
fined! 

O Scotia! my dear, mj native soil! 

For whom my warmest wish to heaven 
is sent! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and 
sweet content! 
And, oh! may heaven their simple lives 
prevent 
From luxury's contagion weak and vile! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand a wall of fire around their 
much-loved isle. 

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide 
That streamed through Wallace's un- 
daunted heart — 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part — 
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art — 
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- 
ward !) 
Oh, never, never Scotia's realm desert; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
In bright succession raise, her ornament 
and guard ! 

Robert Burns. 



THE WILDERNESS TRANS- 
FORMED. 

Amazing, beauteous change! 
A world created new ! 
M.y thoughts with transport range, 
The lovely scene to view ; 

In all I trace. 

Savior divine, 

The work is 'Jliine — 

Be Thine the praise! 



See crystal fountains plav 
Amidst the burning sands; 
The river's winding way 
Shines through the thirsty lands; 

New grass is seen. 

And o'er the meads 

Its carpet spreads 

Of living green. 

Where pointed brambles grew, 
Entwined with horrid thorn, 
Gay flowers, for ever new. 
The painted fields adorn — 

The blushing rose 

And lily there, 
■ In union fair 

Their sweets disclose. 

Where the bleak mountain stood 
All bare and disari-ayed. 
See the wide-branching wood 
Diffuse its grateful shade ; 

Tall cedars nod. 

And oaks and pines 

And elms and vines. 

Confess the God. 

The tyrants of the plain 
Their savage chase give o'er — 
No more they rend the slain, 
And thirst for blood no more; 

But infant hands 

Fierce tigers stroke, 

And lions yoke 

In flowery bands. 

Oh, when. Almighty Lord, 
Shall these glad scenes arise, 
To verify Thy word. 
And bless our wondering eyes' 

That earth may raise. 

With all its tongues, 

United songs 

Of ardent praise, 

Philip Doddridge. 



176 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



MY LEGACY. 

They told me I was heir: I turned in 

haste, 
And ran to seek my treasure, 
And wondered, as I ran, how it was 

placed, — 
If I should find a measure 
Of gold, or it" the titles of fair lands 
And houses would be laid within my 

hands. 

I journeyed many roads; I knocked at 

gates ; 
I spoke to each wayfarer 
I met, and said, " A heritage awaits 
Me. Art not thou the bearer 
Of news? some message sent to me where- 

by 
I learn which way my new possessions 

lie?" 

Some asked me in ; naught lay beyond 

their doors ; 
Some smiled, and would not tarry, 
But said that men were just behind who 

bore 
More gold than I could carry ; 
And so the morn, the noon, the day, were 

spent, 
While emptv-handed up and down I went. 

At last One cried, whose face I could not 

see, 
As through the mists He hasted: 
" Poor child, what evil ones have hindered 

thee 
Till this whole day is wasted ? 
Hath no man told thee that thou art joint 

heir 
With One named Christ, who waits the 

goods to share? " 

The One named Christ I sought for many 

days, 
In many places vainly ; 



I heard men name His name in many ways; 

I saw His temples plainh- ; 

But they who named Him most gave me 

no sign 
To find Him by, or prove the heirship mine. 

And when at last I stood before His face, 

I knew Him by no token 

Save subtle air of joy which filled the 

place; 
Our greeting was not spoken; 
In solemn silence I received my share, 
Kneeling before my brother and "joint 

heir." 



My share ! No deeds of house and spread- 
ing lands, 

As I had dreamed ; no measure 

Heaped up with gold ; my elder brother's 
hands 

Had never held such treasure. 

Foxes have holes, and birds in nests are 
fed: 

Mv brother had not where to lav His head. 



My share! The right like Him to know all 

pain 
Which hearts are made for knowing; 
The right to find in loss the surest gain ; 
To reap my joy from sowing 
In bitter tears; the right with Him to keep 
A watch by day and night with all who 

weep. 

My share ! To-day men call it grief and 

death; 
I see the joy and life to-morrow; 
I thank my Father with my every breath, 
For this sweet legacy of sorrow; 
And through my tears I call to each " joint 

heir " 
With Christ, " Make haste to ask Him for 

thy share." 

Helen Hunt. 




J 



I 





OF POETR2 


' AND SONG. 177 




THE BELLS. 


III. 
Hear the loud alarum bells — 




1. 


Brazen bells! 




Hear the sledges with the bells — 


What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 
tells! 




Silver bells — 
What a world of merriment their melody 


In the startled ear of night 

How they scream out their affright 




foretells! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 


Too much horrified to speak. 
They can only shriek, shriek. 




In the icy air of night! 
While the stars that over^rinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 


Out of tune, 
In the clamorous appealing to the mercy 
of the fire. 




With a crystalline delight — 


In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 




Keejing time, lime, time, 
In a sort of Runic rJiyme, 
To the tintinnabulation that so musically 


Irantic fire 
Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 




wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 


And a resolute endeavor, 
Now — now to sit or never, 




Bells, bells, bells— 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the 


By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells. 




bells. 


What a tale their terror tells 




II. 


Of despair! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar! 




Hear the mellow wedding bells — 


What a horror they outpour 
On the bosom of the palpitating air! 




Golden bells! 


Yet the ear it fully knows, 




What a world of happiness their harmony 
foretells! 
Through the balmy air of night 


By the twanging 
And the clanging. 
How the danger ebbs and flows; 




How they ring out their delight! 
From the molten-golden notes, 
And all in tune. 


Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling. 
And the wrangling. 




What a liquid ditty floats 


How the danger sinks and sw Is, 




To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 


By the sinking or the swelling in the nger 




gloats 


of the bells — 




On the moon ! 


Of the bells— 




Oh, from out the sounding cells, 


Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 




What a gush of euphony voluminously 
wells ! 


Bells, bells, bells— 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! 




How it swells! 






How it dwells 


IV. 




On the Future! how it tells 






Of the rapture that impels 


Hear the tolling of the bells — 




To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 


Iron bells! 
What a world of solemn thought their 




Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 


monody compels! 




Bells, bells, bells— 


In the silence of the night. 




To the rhyming and the chiming of the 


How we shiver with aftVight 




bells 
♦4 


At the melancholy menace of their tone! 



178 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people — 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone. 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman — 
They are neither brute nor human — 

They are ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
Rolls, 
A paean from the bells! 
And his merry bosom swells 

With the ptean of the bftlls! 
And he dances and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Riuiic rhyme. 
To the piean of the bells — 
Of the bells: 
Keeping time, time, time. 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 

To the throbbing of the bells — 
Ofthe bells, bells, bells— 

To the sobbing of the bells; 
K'leping time, time, time. 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
I a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells — 
t f the bells, bells, bells— 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Oi tie bells, bells, bells, bells- 
Bells, bells, bells— 
To the moaning and the groaning of the 
bells. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



Those joyous hours are passed aw^av ; 
And many a heart that then was gay. 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 't will be when I am gone — 
That tuneful peal will still ring on; 
While other bards shall walk these dells, 
And sing your praise; sweet evening bells. 
Thomas Moors. 



THOSE EVENING BELLS. 

Those evening bells! those e\ening bells! 
J low many a tale their music tells. 
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
"When last I lieard their soothinfif chime! 



THE LADY AT SEA. 

Cables entangling her; 
Ship-spars for mangling her; 
Ropes sure of strangling her; 
Blocks over-dangling her; 
Tiller to batter her; 
Topmast to shatter her ; 
Tobacco to spatter her; 
Boreas blustering; 
Boatswain quite flustering; 
Thunder-clouds mustering. 
To blast her with sulphur — 
If the deep do n't ingulph her; 
Sometimes fear 's scrutiny 
Pries out a mutiny, 
Snifts conflagration. 
Or hints at starvation ; 
All the sea dangers. 
Buccaneers, rangers. 
Pirates, and Sallee-men, 
Algerine galley-men, 
Tornadoes and t^ phons, 
And horrible syphons, 
And submarine travels 
Thro' roaring sea-na\'els; 
Everything wrong enough — ■ 
Long-boat not long enougii; 
Vessel not strong enough ; 
Pitch marring frippery ; 
The deck very slippery; 
And the cabin— built sloping; 
The captain a-toping; 
And the mate a blasphemer, 
That names his Redeemer — 
With inward uneasiness; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



179 



The cook known by greasiness • 

The victuals beslubbered; 

Her bed — in a cupboard; 

Things of strange christening, 

Snatched in her listening; 

Blue lights and red lights, 

And mention of dead lights; 

And shrouds made a theme of — 

Things horrid to dream of; 

And buoys in the water; 

To fear all exhort her. 

Her friend no Leander — 

Herself no sea gander: 

And ne'er a cork jacket 

On board of the packet; 

The breeze still a-stiffening; 

The trumpet quite deafening; 

Thoughts of repentance, 
And doomsday, and sentence; 
Every thing sinister — 
Not a church minister; 

Pilot a blunderer; 
Coral reefs under her, 
Ready to sunder her : 
Trunks tipsy-topsv ; 
The ship in a dropsy ; 
Waves oversurging her; 
Sirens a-dirging her; 
Sharks all expecting her; 
Sword-fish dissecting her; 
Crabs with their hand-vices 
Punishing land vices; 
Sea-dogs and unicorns, 
Things with no puny horns ; 
Mermen carnivorous — 
"Good Lord deliver us! " 

Thomas Hood. 



-h- 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the 

kye at hame, 
And a' the warld to sleep are gane; 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae 

my ee, 
When my gudeman lies sound by me. 

Young Jamie loo'd me weel ; and socht me 
for his bride; 



But, saving a croun, he had naething else 

beside. 
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie 

gaed to sea; 
And the croun and the pund were baith for 

me! 

He hadna been awa a week but only twa, 
When my mother she fell sick, and the 

cow was stown awa ; 
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie 

at the sea — - 
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 

My father cou'dna work, and my mother 

cou'dna spin ; 
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread 

I cou'dna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and. 

wi' tears in his ee. 
Said, "Jenny, lor their sakes, oh marry 

me ! " 

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie 

back ; 
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it 

was a wrack; 
The ship it was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie 

dee.^ 
Or, why do I live to sav, Wae 's me! 

My father argued sair— my mother didna 

speak, 
But she lookit in my tace till my heart was 

like to break ; 
Sae they gied him my hand; though mv 

heart was in the sea ; 
And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. 

I hadna been a wife, a week but only four, 
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, 
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna 

think it he. 
Till he said, "I 'm come back for to marrv 

thee!" 

Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muckle ciid 
we say ; 



; 180 ILLUSTRATED 

i 


LIOME BOOK 


1 

We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves 


How tell you all in such a breathless time.' 


awa V ; 


When Death is standing with his door 


I wish I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee; 


ajar. 


And why do I live to saj, Wae 's me? 


Counting the minutes in a dreadful rhyme, 


1 


Till he may take his whetted scythe, 


1 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 


and mar 


I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a 


The glorious garden where my pleasures 


sin ; 


grew 


But I '11 do my best a gude wife to be, 


To music and new hope because of you. 


For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. 




Lady Anne Barnard. 


It is a fearful fall to truest knights — 




This headlong tumble to a mystic goal. 
This slipping from God's sky and all its 




CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART. 


Hghts, 
To dirt and darkness in a narrow hole; 


Dear heart, 1 bless you for this parting 


But unto me an angel came to show 


grace, 


That we imagine all the bitter part — 


That is as sunshine on a winter day ; 


One crack of thunder and one seething 


Now that last looks may be upon your face, 


glow 


There nothing is can wound me on my way 


Of lightning, and a little timid start. 


Filling my prison with a light divine. 


And there an end ; the storm becomes a 


My queen, j'ou come as does a saintly 


charm. 


moon, 


With promise of new life without alarm. 


And I forget the dark clouds while you shine 




And take no heed of that which will be 


I do remember in Love's land of France, 


soon. 


Whither best thoughts do truant-like run 


Was ever fate like mine.^ so dark and sweet.'' 


back. 


■God's feast before me, and I may not eat. 


Our life was zoned with light and fair ro- 




mance, 


God's feast, for I have won your heart at 


And dance and glamour followed in the 


last. 


track— 


And may not tarry for a lover's kiss; 


Nay, these are not poor flow'rs I pluck so 


But rich reward for future pain and past 


late ; 


Is this one hour — this present hour of 


They have the scent of early love, and 


bliss. 


tho' 


What though another night shall find me 


Some poison-buds come too, they are of 


dead, 


Fate, 


With no more sense of love and summer 


And honey were not sweet if 't were not 


morn : 


so; 


I lived to put a crown upon my head 


All is for love, and deadlv nightshade grows 


' That shall be with me in the time unborn ; 


As much by Heaven's will as does the rose. 


Nor may I be deceived with dying breath — 




Speech is prophetic on the day of death. 


When that the gentle Hero held the light, 




Leander, knowing then her truth to him, 


Trust me, m}' perfect love, this midnight 


Sank under sea in his extreme delight. 


walk 


And in Life's river covild no longer swim : 


Is but a fretful prologue to the play — 


Now- that you hold this loving light to me, 


Arxietude and doubt and troubled talk. 


Death's river, where the clouds hang in 


Then writing shows the scene for Heaven 


the night, 


Day. 


Shall be as glorious as Leander's sea. 




CHASTKLAKD TO M A R V STUART. 



I 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



183 



And the mysterious ft-rrv shall be bright; 
Your tears are bitter-sweet, e'en I could 

weep 
For joy ot" this " Good night, and pleasant 

sleep." 

Stay your tears, my sweet, and no more 
speech 
Shall come from me of Death; if m\- 
heart's kiss 
Can cure your agony, I do beseech 

Your lips a little, that I may not miss 
The melody locked up with your dear voice. 
This pure and precious time can no pain 
give, 
But only gentle faith, and I rejoice 

In knowledge of love strong enough to 
• live: 
Your hand is heaven, my love; I feel vour 

kis-s; 
Your eyes speak peace, and now the rest is 
blia«. Guy Rosl\n. 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 



IUmelix Town '> in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover cit\ ; 
The river Weser, deep and wide. 
Washes its wall on the southern side; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But when begins my dittv, 

Almost five hundred years ago. 
To see the townsfolk sufter so 

From vermin, was a pity. 



Rats! 
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 

And licked the soup from the cook's own 
ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
I And even spoiled the women's chats, 



By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty difterent sharps and flats. 

III. 

At last tne people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking: 
'> 'T is clear," cried they, " our Mayor 's a 
noddv ; 
And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined w^ith ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What 's best to rid us of our vermin! 
You hope, because jou 're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease.? 
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we 're lacking. 
Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing! " 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 



An hour they sate in counsel — 

At length the Mayor broke silence: 
' For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown sell; 

I w ish I w ere a inile hence ! 
It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
I 'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I 've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap I " 
Just as he said this, w hat should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle tap.' 
i' Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what 's that.'" 
(With the Corporation as he sat. 
Looking little though wondrous fat; 
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster, 
Save when at noon his paunch grew muti- 
nous 
For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous) 
" Only a scraping of shoes on the mat.' 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 



•'Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking 

bigger; 
And in did come the strangest figure: 
His queer long coat from heel to head 



J 











4 


'^. 


1 84 ILLUSTRATED 


HOME BOOK 






Was half of yellow and half of red; 


vn. 


» And he himself was tall and thin; 






', With sharp blue ejes each like a pin ; 


Into the street tne piper stepi, 




:j And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin; 


Smiling fii-st a little smiie. 




i. No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin 

S But lips where smiles went out and in — 


As if he knew what magic slept 




In his quiet pipe the while; 






There Avas no guessing his kith and kin ! 


Then, like a musical adept. 








And nobody could enough admire 


To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 








The tall man and his quaint attire. 


And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled 








Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire. 


Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; 






' Starting up at the trump of doom's tone, 


And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,. 




Had walked this Avay from his painted 


You heard as if an army muttered ; 






tombstone ! " 


And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 










And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum- 
bling; 
And out of the houses the rats came tum- 








" 








VI. 


bling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 


^ 






He advanced to the council table: 


Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawnv rats> 








And, " Please your honors," said he, 1 'm 


Grave old plodders, gay young friskers. 








able, 


P'athers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 








By means of a secret charm, to draw 


Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; 








All living creatures beneath the sun, 


P'amilies by tens and dozens, 








That creep, or swim, or fly, or run. 


Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 








After me so as you never saw! 


Followed the Piper for their lives. 








And I chiefly use my charm 


From street to street he piped advancing. 








On creatures that do people harm — 


And step for step they followed dancing, 








The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper — 


Until they came to the ri\er Weser 








And people call me the Pied Piper." 


Wherein all plunged and perished 








(And here they noticed around his neck 


— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 








A scarf of red and yellow- stripe, 


Swam across and lived to carry 








To match with his coat of the self same 


(As he the manuscript he cherished) 








check ; 


To Rat-land home his commentary. 








And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; 


Which was: "At the first shrill notes of 








And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 


the pipe. 


• 






straying 


T heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 








As if impatient to be plaving 


And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 








Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 


Into a cider-press's gripe — 








Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 


And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, 








Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, 


And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. 








In Tartary I freed the Cham, 


And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks. 








Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; 


And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; 








I eased in Asia the Nizam 


And it seemed as if a voice 








Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 


(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 








And, as for what your brain bewilders — 


Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice! 








If I can rid your town of rats. 


The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! 








Will you give me a thousand guilders.? " 


So munch on, crunch on, t;;ke your 








"One.' fifty thousand!" — was the exclama- 


nimcheon, 








tion 


Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 








Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 


And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 


















• 


' 





Of POETRY AND SONG. 



185 



All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
Glorious, scaTe an inch before me, 
Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! 
— I found ♦he Weser rollinsr o'er me." 



You should ha\'e heard the Hamelin people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the 

steeple ; 
"Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes! 
Consult with carpenters and binlders. 
And leave in our town not e^'en a trace 
Of the rats! " — when suddenly, up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place. 
With a, " First, if you please, my thousand 

guilders! " 



A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked 

blue; 
So did the Corporation too. 
For council dinners made rare havock 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock : 
And half the money would replenish 
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 
To j)ay this sum to a wandering fellow 
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 
" Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing- 
wink, 
"Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. 
And what 's dead can't come to life, I think, 
So, friend, we 're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something 

for drink. 
And a matter of monc\- to put in _\our poke; 
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in 

joke 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" 



The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
"No trifling! I can't wait! beside, 
I've promised to visit by dinner time 
Bagdat, and accept the prime 



Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in,. 
For ha\ing left, in the Caliph's kitchen. 
Of a nest of scorpion's no survivor — 
With him I proved no bargain-driver; 
With you, don't think I '11 bate a stiver! 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion." 



" How.'" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll 

brook 
Being worse-treated tiian a cook.' 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
With idle pipe and \estiu-e piebald.' 
^'ou threaten us, fellow.' Do your worst, 
Blow your pipe there till you burst! " 



Once more he stept into the street; 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 

Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling that seemed like a 

bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and 

hustling; 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes 

clattering, 
Little hands clapping, and little tongues 

chattering; 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barlev 

is scattering. 
Out came the children running: 
All the little boys and girls. 
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like peails, 
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and 

laughter. 



The Mayor was dumb, and the Council 

stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of 

wood. 
Unable to move a step or cry 



186 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



To the children merrily skipping by — 
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
But how the Mayor was on the rack, 
And the wrjetched Council's bosoms beat, 
As the Piper turned from the High Street 
To where the .Weser rolled its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 
Howe\er, he turned from South to West, 
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 
And after him the children pressed; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 
" He never can cross that mighty top! 
He 's forced to let the piping drop. 
And we shall see oiu- children stop!" 
When, lo, as they reached the mountain's 

side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide, 
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; 
And the Piper advanced and the children 

followed; 
And when all were in to the very last, 
The door in the mountain side shut fast. 
Did I say all.'' No! One was lame. 
And could not dance the whole of the way ; 
And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say, — 
"It's dull in our town since my playmates 

left! 
I can 't forget that I 'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
Which the Piper also promised me; 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue. 
And every thing was strange and new; 
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks 

here, 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer. 
And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
And horses were born with eagles' wings; 
And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured. 
The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the Hill, 
Left alone against my will. 
To go now limping as before. 
And never hear of that country more!" 



XIV. 

Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 

There came into many a burgner's pate 

A text which says, that Heaven's gate 

Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! 
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and 

Soutii, 
To ofter the piper by word of mouth, 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he 'd only return the way he went. 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 't was a lost endeavor. 
And piper and dancers were gone for ever. 
They made a decree that lawyers never 

Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year. 
These words did not as well appear, 
'' And so long after what happened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six;" 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the Children's last retreat 
They called it tiie Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
Nor suffered thej' hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the Great Church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted. 
How their children were stolen away; 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterranean prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago, in a mighty band. 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
But how or wh\', they do n't understand. 



So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



187 



Of score* out with all men — especially 


And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled 


pipers ; 


with his blood; 


And, whether they pipe us free from rats 


And we cried unto the living God, who 


or from mice, 


ra'es the fate of war, 


If we've promised them aught, let us keep 


To fight for His own holy name, and Henry 


our promise. 


of Navarre. 


Robert Browning. 





IVRY. 



Now glor\- to tlic Lord ot hosts, from whom 

all glories are! 
And glory to our so\ereign liege, King 

Henry of Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music 

and of dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny 

vines, O pleasant land of France! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 

proud citv of the waters. 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy i 

mourning daughters; 
As thou vvert constant in our ills, be joyous 

in our joy ; 
For cold and stiff" and still are they who 

wrought thv walls annoy. 
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned 

the chance of war! 
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivr}', and Henry of 

Navarre. 

Oh! liow our hearts were beating, when, at 

the dawn of da\ , 
We >aw the army of the league drawn out 

in long array , 
With all its priest-led citizens, ami all its 

rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Eg- 

mcjiit's Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the 

curses of our land ; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a 

truncheon in his hand; 
And as we looked on them, we thought of 

Seine's empurpled flood. 



The king is come to marshal us, in all his 

armor drest ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon 

his gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was 

in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance 

was stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled 

from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout: God 

sa\'e our lord the king! 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full 

well he may — 
For never I saw proinise yet of such a 

bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white phnne shine 

amidst the ranks of \\ar. 
And be your oriflamme to-da\' the helmet 

of Navarre." 



Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to 
the mingled din, 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, 
and roaring culverin. 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint 
Andre's plain. 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders 
and Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gen- 
tlemen of France, 

Charge for the golden lilies — upon them 
with the lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- 
Nand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close 
behind the snow-white crest; 

And in they burst, and on thev rushed, 
while, like a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel- 
met of Navarre. 



Now, God be praised, the day is ours : Ma- 
venne liath turned his rein ; 

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flem- 
ish count is slain ; 

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds 
before a Biscay gale; 

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, 
and flags, and cloven mail. 

And then we thought on vengeance, and, 
all along our van, 

Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed 
from man to man. 

But out spake gentle Henry— "No French- 
man is my foe ; 

Down, down, with every foreigner, but let 
your brethren go " — 

Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friend- 
ship or in war, 

As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the 
soldier of Navarre.^ 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who 

fought for France to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them 

for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best 

in fight; 
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the 

corijiet white — 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white 

hath ta'en. 
The cornet white with crosses black, the 

flag of false Lorrainei 
Up with it high; unfurl it wide — that all 

the host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house 

which wrought His Church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound 

their loudest point of war. 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for 
Henry of Navarre. 



Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of 

Lucerne — 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those 

who never shall return. 
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican 

pistoles, 



That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for 

thy poor spearmen's souls. 
Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that 

vour arms be bright; 
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch 

and ward to-night; 
For our God hath crushed the t\rant, our 

God hath raised the sla\e, 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and 

the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom 

all glories are; 
And glorv to oiu" so\'ereign lord. King 

Henry of Navarre! 

Lord AL\c.\l'lay. 



RED AND WHITE. 

Under the trees by the darkling stream 
The red chief lurks at morning; 

His dusk cheek flushes — an angry gleam 
Is in his wild eye — scorning 

All food or sleep, in a vengeful dream 
He waits for the scout's shrill warning. 

The sun rides high, and the forest screen 
Is pierced, and the sluggish river 

Lights up and laughs, and the murky greerj 
(irows cool with a golden shiver — 

But the red chief whetteth his knife so keen 
And loosens the store of his quiver. 

Down sinks the sun, the evening hymn 
Of birds to heaven hath risen ; 

All in the stillness that chief so grim 
He springs to his feet to listen. 

And the red men crouch by the river's brim^ 
With hungry eyes that glisten. 

There's a plashing of oars in the turbid 
wave. 
There's a glitter of knives in the brake. 
With a careless boat-song on to their grave^ 

With the dying sun in their wake, 
The robbers come, Avho have roused the 
brave 
A sudden revenge to take. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



191 



ii 



The men who dreamed that the duskj 
maids 
Should smile in the huts of the pale — 
O, long shall their daughters through forest 
glades 
Gaze out, and their wives shall \sail, 
For keen and sure are the red men's blades, 
And the river tells no tale. 

B. MONTGOMERIE RANKING. 



THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 



From his brimstone bed at break of day 
A walking the devil is gone, 

To visit his snug little farm, the earth, 
And see how his stock goes on. 



Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain; 
And backward and forward he switched his 
long tail, 

As a gentleman switches liis cane. 



And how then was the devil drest.' 

Oh! he was in his Sunday's best: 

His jacket was red and his breeches were 

blue, 
And there was a hole where the tail came 

through. 



He saw a lawyer killing a viper 

On a dunghill hard by his own stable; 

And the devil smiled, for it put him in 
mind 
Of Cain and his brother Abel. 



He saw an apothecary on a white horse 

Ride by on his vocations; 
And the devil thought of his old friend 

Death, in the Revelations. 



He saw a cottage with a double coach-house 

A cottage of gentility; 
And the devil did grin, for his darling sin 

Is pride that apes humilitv. 



He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop — 
Quoth he, "We are both of one college! 

For^ sate, myself, like a cormorant, once, 
Hard bv the tree of knowledge." 



Down the river did glide, with wind and 
with tide, 
A pig with vast celerity; 
And the devil looked wise as he saw how, 

the while. 
It cut its own throat. "There!" quoth he 
with a smile, 
"Goes England's commercial prosperity." 



As he w ent through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 

i\ solitary cell ; 
And the devil was pleased, for it gave him 
a hint 

For improving his prisons in hell. 



He saw a turnkey in a trice 

Fetter a troublesome blade ; 
" Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move 

If ;i man be but used to his trade." 



He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man 

With but little expedition; 
Which put him in mind of the long debote 

On the slave-trade abolition. 



He saw an old acquaintance 

As he passed by a Methodist n.oeting; 
She holds a consecrated key. 

And the devil nods her a greeting. 



V.I-- 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



She turned up her nose, and said, 
" Avaunt! — my name 's Religion! " 

And she looked to Mr. , 

And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 



He saw a certain minister, 
A minister to his mind, 

Go up into a certain house, 
With a majority behind; 



The devil quoted Genesis, 
Like a very learned clerk. 

How " Noah and his creeping things 
Went up into the ark." 



He took from the poor. 

And he gave to the rich, 
And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 

For he was not afraid of the 



General 



xvn. 
burnini 



face 



He saw with consternation. 
And back to hell his way did he take — 
For the devil thought by a slight mistake 

It was a general conflagration. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



SWEET SUMMER TIME. 

Who has not dreamed a world of bliss 
On a bright sunny noon like this. 
Couched by his native brook's green maze. 
With comrade of his boyish days. 
While all around them seemed to be 
Just as in joyous infancy ; 
Who has not loved at such an hour, 
Upon that heath in birchen bower. 
Lulled in the poet's dreamy mood, 
Its wild and sunnv solitude.' 



While o'er the waste of purple ling 
You mark a sultry glimmering; 
Silence herself there seems to sleep. 
Wrapped in a slumber long and deep. 
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep 
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloon\, 
And gleaming of the scattered broom, 
Love you not, then, to list and hear 
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near. 
Pouring an orange-scented tide 
Of fragrance o'er tiie desert wide.' 
To hear the buzzard's whimpering shrill. 
Hovering above you high and still.' 
The twittering of the bird that dwells 
Among the heath's delicious bells.' 
While round your bed, o'er fern and blade. 
Insects in green and gold arrayed. 
The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed ; 
And sweeter sound their humming wings 
Than the proud minstrel's echoing strings. 
William Howitt. 



TAM O'SHANTER. 



Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Biike. 

Ga-'.'iii Doiior/ass. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late. 
An' folk begin to tak the gate; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' getting ibu and unco happy. 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
W^hare sits our sulky, sullen dame. 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm. 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, 
As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonnie lasses). 

O Tam ! hadst thou been but sae wise 
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 
A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum; 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



19a 



That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober; 
That ilka melder, \vi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday. 
She prophesied that, late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drowned in 

Doon ; 
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet 
To think how monie counsels sweet, 
How monie lengthened sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises! 

But to our tale: Ae market night 
Tam had got planted unco right. 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony — 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither — 
Thev had been fou for weeks thegither, 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter. 
And ay the ale was growing better; 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
^V'i' favors secret, sweet, and precious; 
The souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happv. 
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy; 
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure; 
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
A moment white — then melts forever; 
Or like the boreal is race. 
That flit ere you can point their place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing amid the storm. 
Nae man can tether time or tide; 
Tiie hour approaches Tam maun ride — 



That hour o' night's black arch the keystane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in. 
And sic a night he takes the road in 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling showers rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed : 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed ; 
That night a child might understand 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, 
(A better never lifted leg), 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire — 
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots 

sonnet, 
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
Kirk-Allowaj' was drawing nigh. 
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Where in the snaw the chapman smoored ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well. 
Where Mimgo's mither hanged hersel. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods : 
The doubling storm roars through the 

woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees. 
Kirk Allovvay seemed in a bleeze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil! 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. 
Fair play, he cared na Deils a bodle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonished, 
Till, by the heel and hand admoiiished. 
She ventured forward on the light; 
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight; 
Warlocks and witches in a dance: 



194 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



4 



Nae cotillion brent new trae France, 

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspreys, and reels 

Put life and mettle in their heels. 

A winnock-bunker in the east, 

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast — 

A towzie tjke, black, grim, and large — 

To gie them music was his charge; 

He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, 

Till roof an' rafter a' did dirl. 

Coffins stood round like open presses, 

That shawed the dead in tlieir last dresses ; 

And by some devilish cantrips sleight. 

Each in its cauld hand held a light — 

Bv which heroic Tam was able 

To note upon the halj table, 

A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; 

A thief, new cvitted fra a rape, 

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 

Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; 

Five scjmitars, wi' murder crusted ; 

A garter which a babe had strangled ; 

A knife a father's throat had mangled. 

Whom his ain son o' life bereft — 

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 

Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout; 

And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, 

Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk: 

Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' 

Which ev'n to name would be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowred, amazed, and curious 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious ; 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 
They reeled, they set, they crossed, they 

cleckit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark, 
And linket at it in her sark. 

Now Tam, O Tam ! had they been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens : 
Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen. 
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen ; 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdles. 
For ae blink o' the bonnie hurdles ! 

But withered beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 



Lowping an' flinging on a crummock — 
I wonder did na turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kenn'd what was what tu' 
brawlie. 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore! 
For monie a beast to dead she shot, 
And perished monie a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear), 
Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn. 
That while a lassie she had worn — 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty, 
It was her best, and she was vaunty. 
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) — 
Wad ever graced a dance o' witches! 

But here my Muse her wing maun cower 
Sic flights are far beyond her power ; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jad she was and Strang) ; 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched, 
And thought his very een enriched. 
Ev'n Satan glowred, and fidged fu' fain. 
And botched and blew wi' might and main 
Till first ae caper, syne anither — 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant a' was dark; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When pop! she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd, 
When Catch the thief! resounds aloud; 
So Maggie runs — the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow^ 
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou '11 get thy fair- 
in' ! 
In hell they '11 roast thee like a herrin! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' — 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss — 
A running stream they dare na cross. 



OF POETR2' AND SONG. 



195 



But ere the kev-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail she had to shake; 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle : 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aft" her master hale. 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump. 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclined, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your inind. 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 

Robert Burns. 



HYMN 



BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF 
CHAMOUNI. 

Hast Ihou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In hi-~ Nteep course.' So long he seems to 

]iause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thv base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awtul 

Form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, 

black— 
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge! But when I look again. 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 

shrine. 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon 

thee. 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced 

in prayer 

1 wosrhipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melodv. 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it. 



Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with 

my thought — 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret jov — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty vision passing — there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to 

Heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ectasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy clifts, all join my 

hymn. 
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of 

the vale ! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the 

night. 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when thev 

sink — 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald — wake, oh wake, and utter 

praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth.? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosv light.? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual 

streams.' 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely 

giad! 
Who called you forth from night and utter 

death. 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged 

rocks. 
For ever shattered and the same for ever.' 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your furv, and 

your joy. 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam.' 
And who commanded (and the silence 

came). 
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest.' 

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's 
brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 



196 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
voice, 

And stopped at once amid their maddest 
plunge! , 

Motionless torrents ! eilent cataracts ! 

Who made you g'orious as the gates of 
Heaven 

Beneath the keen full moon? Who hade 
the sun 

Clothe vou with rainbows? Who, with liv- 
ing flowers 

Of lovliest blue, spread garlands at your 
feet? 

God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of na- 
tions, 

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! 

God ! sing ye meadow-streams with glad- 
some voice! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 
sounds! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 
God! 
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
frost ! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's 
nest! 

Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain- 
storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
clouds! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements! 

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with 
praise ! 

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky- 
pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the 

pure serene. 
Into the depths of clouds that veil thy 

breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused 

with tears. 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, oh ever rise ! 



Rise like a cloud of incense, from the 

Earth ! 
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 

Heaven, 
Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises 

God. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



BLIGHTED LOVE. 



(From the Portiiffuese of Luis De Camoens, by 
Lord Strangford.) 



Flowers are fresh, and bushes green, 

Cheerily the linnets sing; 
Winds are soft, and skies serene; 

Time, however, soon shall throw 
Winter's snow 
O'er the buxom breast of spring! 

Hope, that buds in lover's heart, 

Lives not through the scorn of years; 
Time makes love itself depart; 

Time and storm congeal the mind,- 
Looks unkind, 
Freeze affection's warmest tears. 

Time shall make the bushes green; 
Time dissolve the winter's snow; 
Winds be soft, and skies serene; 

Linnets sing their wonted strain : 
But again 
Blighted love shall never blow 



MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day. 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 




RLIGHTED LOVE. 



CF rOETRl' AND SONC. 



199 



Sin^'ing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed trom his tree. 

But, when she ghmced to the far-oft" town. 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
And a naineless longing filled her breast — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 

The judge rode slowly down the lane. 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And ask a draught from the spring that 

flowed 
Through the meadow, across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled 

up, 
And tilled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

"Thanksl" said the judge, "a sweeter 

draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming- 
bees; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered 

whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul 

weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel-eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 



Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! 

That I the judge's bride might be! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" 1 'd dress my mother so grand and gay. 
And the baby should have a new toy each 
day. 

"And I'd feed the hungrj^ and clothe the 

poor. 
And all should bless me w ho left our door." 

The judge looked back as he climbed the 

hill. 
And saw Maud Muller standing still: 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay. 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

" But low of cattle, and song of birds. 
And health, and quiet, and loving words." 

But he thought of his sister, proud and 

cold. 
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the judge rode on. 
And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
Wlien he hummed in court an old love 
tune: 

And the young girl mused beside the well. 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 



200 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



He wedded ft -wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marhle hearth's bright glow. 
He watched a picture come and go; 

And sweet Maud Mailer's hazel eyes 
Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead, 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
To dream of meadows and clo\ er blooms; 

And the proud man sighed with a secret 

pain, 
" Ah, that 1 were free again! 

" Free as when I rode that day 

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay.' 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and l^rain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein, 

And, gazing down with a timid grace, 
She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her- narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned ; 

And for him who sat by the chimne\' lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug. 



A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for judge. 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both! arid pity us all. 
Who \ainly the dreams ot _>outh recall; 

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 
The saddest are these : " It might have 
been ! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from his grave away ! 

John Greexleaf Whittier. 



WE PARTED IN SILENCE. 

VV'e parted in silence, we parted by night, 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
Where the fragrant limes their boughs 
unite. 

We met — and we parted forever! 
The night-bird sung — and the stars abo\e 

I'old many a touching story 
Of friends long passed to the kingdom of 
love, 

Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. 

We parted in silence, — our cheeks were wet 
With the tears tiiat were past controlling; 
A\'e vowed \\e would never, no, never 
forget. 
And those vows at the time were con- 
soling; 
But those lips that echoed the sounds of 
mine 
.Vre as cold as that lonely river; 
And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine. 
Has shrouded its fires forever. 



I 




NA TURE. 

Nature ! thou, my first, best friend, 
Mv earliest love, and best! 

With us was never any end 

Of confidence and rest: 

Here no reserve, but frankest speech, 

No need for place apart ; 

1 do not fear to let thee hear 
The beating of my heart. 

Caroline S. Rogers. 



OF POETRY AND SONG 



308 



And now on the midnight sky I look, 

And my lieart grows full of weeping; 
Each star is to me a sealed book, 

Some tale of that lo\ed one keeping. 
We parted in silence, — we parted in tears 

On the banks of that lonely river; 
But the odor and bloom of those bygone 
years 

Shall hang o'er its waters forever. 

— Mrs. Crawford. 



ANNIE LAURIE. 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
Where early fa's the dew, 
Xndi it's there that Annie Laurie 
Gie'd me her promise true; 
Gie'd me her promise true. 
Which ne'er forgot will be; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I 'd la\ me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snaw drift; 
Her throat is like the swan; 
Her lace it is the fairest 
That e'er the sun shone on — 
That e'er the sun shone on — 
And dark blue is her ee; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I 'd lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; 

And like the winds in summer sighing 

Her voice is low and sweet — 

Her voice is low and sweet — 

And she's a' the world to me; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I 'd lay me doune and dee. 

Anonymou.s. 



THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 
Of right choice food are his meals I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cbld. 



The walls must be crumbled, the stones 
decayed, 
To pleasvire his dainty whim; 
And the mouldering dust that years have 
made 
Is a merry meal for him. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
wings. 
And a staunch old heart has he! 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 

To his friend, the huge oak tree! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground. 

And his leaves he gently waves. 
And he jovously twines and hugs around 
The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant i^. the Ivy green. 

Whole ages ha\e fled, and their works de- 
cayed. 
And nations scattered been ; 
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The bra\e old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the Ivy's food at last. 

Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
Charles Dickens. 



AMID THE ROSES. 

I seek her midst the roses, and 
My soul is sore for love. 

Her image beams serenely grand 
As Cvnthia's form above, 

Enchas'd in halo. Brave mv hand 
To grasp thy treasure trove I 

I seek her midst the roses, for 

I ma\' no longer wait 
A suitor reckless at her door, 

And flinch to learn my fate. 
I dare not hope. I dare no more 

Than humbly supplicate. 



204 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


I seek her midst the roses, where 


An echo from the roses rends 


Soft pleasures, redolent 


My bosom and the sky. 


Of gracious things, enrich the air 


Humbly I kneel. My right hand bends 


Impregnate with their scent. 


Her latchet to untie, 


She can but choose to hear a prayer 


Whilst she a dainty foot extends 


With odor thus besprent. 


In gesture mockingly. 


I meet her midst the roses. Yes; 


Then mid the blossoms ruby red 


Hard by the mossy briars. 


The Boy-God draws his shaft. 


One bud she clasps in close caress, 


Home has the love-tipt arrow sped 


So cold, though near her fires. 


On roseate odors waft. 


To live as that, nor more nor less. 


She thrills. Her dainty heart has bled 


Would surfeit Jove's desires. 


Ere mv poor lips ha\e cpiafleii. 


I greet her midst the roses, while 


In true obeisance hers, not her, 


Fierce burns the breath of May. 


The fire-containing ice. 


Why turns she to avoid my smile.? 


No cause to cringe, no fear to err; 


Why cast her bud away .' 


She changes in a trice 


Just Phoebus! could a thing of guile 


From white to rose; confessing, " .Sir, 


Deserve a darker day ? 


You gi\'e me Paradise." 


Yet, no! Amid the roses, I 


Ye swains, amid the roses find 


Will deem her cruel-kind : 


'Twere wisdom to be true. 


When maiden frowns disdainfully 


Your Chloe's test may seem unkind. 


'T were wisdom to be blind. 


And hard your Chloe's shoe; 


'T were weak to count a wilful eve 


Yet when she proves your constant mind 


The reflex of her mind. 


She '11 e'en consent to you. 




COiMPTON ReADE. 


Thus, tremulous midst the roses, lest 




My love its love should miss, 




I falter forth a bold i-equest 




That she will grant me bliss — 
But once to sip her best of best. 
The nectar of a kiss. 


THE KITTEN AND FALLING 
LEAVES. 




That way look, my infant, lo! 


She midst her roses stands apart 


What a pretty baby-show! 


In silvern panoply 


See the kitten on the wall. 


Of innocence. But Cupid's dart, 


Sporting with the leaves that fall- 


Though fitted warily. 


Withered leaves, — one, two, and three, — 


Wings not its flight. Must I depart 


From the lofty elder tree! 


Shamed of my lu-gency.'' 


Through the calm and frosty air 




Of this morning bright and fair. 


Ye roses! " Such request. Sir Knight 


Eddving round and round, they sink 


Fond heart should never rue." 


Softlv, slowly; one might think. 


I hear a whisper, laughing light. 


From the motions that are made. 


" Though best of best for you, 


Every little leaf conveyed 


Nor coral lip, nor forehead white, 


Sylph or fairy hither tending. 


Rather this silken shoe! " 


To this lower world descending, 




Why are red roses red, 

For roses once were white ? 
( Because the loving nightingales 

Sang on their thorns all night, — 
Sang till the blood they shed 
Had dyed the roses red. 

R. H. SronnARD. 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



207 



Each invisible and mute 
In his wavering' parachute. 

But the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! 

P'irst at one, and then its fellow 

Just as light and just as yellow ; 

There are many now, — now one, — 

Now they stop, and there are none. 

What intenseness of desire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 

With a tiger-leap! Half-way 

Now she meets the coming prey. 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again ; 

Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer; 

Quick as he in feats of art, 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in the eye 

Of a thousand standers-by. 

Clapping hands with shout and stare, 

What would little Tabby care 

For the plaudits of the crowd.'' 

Over happy to be provid, 

Over w-ealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure! 



■T is a pretty baby treat. 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; 
Here for neither Babe nor me 
Other playmate can I see. 
Of the countless living things 
That with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade, 
Upon bough or grassy blade). 
And with busy revellings, 
Chirp, and song, and murmurings, 
Made this orchard's narrow space, 
And this vale, so blithe a place; 
Multitudes are swept away, 
Never more to breathe the day. 
Some are sleeping; some in bands 
Travelled into distant lands; 
Others slunk to moor and wood, 
Far from human neighborhood; 
And, among the kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 
With us openiy abide. 
All have laid their mirth aside. 



Where is he, that giddy sprite, 
Blue-cap, with his colors bright, 
Who was blest as bird could be. 
Feeding in the apple-tree — 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out — 
Hung, head pointing towards the ground. 
Fluttered, perched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then imbound — 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! 
Light of heart, and light of limb — 
What is now become of him.' 
Lambs, that through the mountains went 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 
When the year was in its prime. 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill. 
If you listen, all is still. 
Save a little neighboring rill 
That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 
Vainly glitter hill and plain. 
And the air is calm in vain; 
Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure ; 
Creature none can she decov 
Into open sign of joy. 
Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near.' 
Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gayety.'' 



Yet, whate'er enjoj-ments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every creature — 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show — 
Such a light of gladness breaks, 
Pretty Kitten ! trom thy freaks, — 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Dora's face — 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 
That almost I could repine 
That your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! 



208 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And I will have my careless season 

Spite of melancholy i-eason, 

Will walk through life in such a way 

That, when time brings on decay, 

Now and then I may possess 

Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 

Pleased by any random toy — 

By a kitten's busy joy, 

Or an infant's laughing eye 

Sharing the ecstasy — 

I would fare like that or this. 

Find my wisdom in my bliss, 

Keep the sprightly soul awake, 

And have faculties to take. 

Even from things by sorrow wrought, 

Matter for a jocund thought — 

Spite of care, and spite of grief. 

To gambol with Life's falling leaf. 

William Wordsworth. 



MARY MORISON. 

O, Mary, at thy w indow be. 

It is the wished, the trysted hour, 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor, 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 

The dance gaed through the lighted ha'. 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw; 
Though th'is was fair, and that was braw, 

And you the toast of a' the town, 
I sighed, and said amang them a', 

"Ye are na Mary Morison!" 

Oh, Mary! canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whose only fault is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie. 

At least be pity to me shown ! 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Bur"^?' 



THE CHILD AND THE WATCHER. 

Sleep on, baby on the floor. 

Tired of all thy playing — 
Sleep on with smile the sweeter for 

That you dropped away in ; 
On your curls' fair roundness stand 

Golden lights serenely ; 
One cheek, pushed out by the hand. 

Folds the dimple inly — 
Little head and little foot 

Heavy laid for pleasure; 
Underneath the lids half-shut 

Plants the shining azure; 
Open-souled in noonday sun, 

So, you lie and slumber; 
Nothing evil having done. 

Nothing can encumber. 

I, who cannot sleep as well, 

Shall I sigh to view you? 
Or sigh further to foretell 

All that may undo you? 
Nay, keep smiling, little child, 

Ere the faith appeareth! 
I smile, too; for patience mild 

Pleasure's token weareth. 
Nay, keep sleeping before loss; 

I shall sleep, though losing! 
As by cradle, so by cross, 

Sweet is the reposing. 

And God knows, who sees us twain, 

Child at childish leisure, 
I am all as tired of pain 

As you are of pleasure. 
\t\-v soon, too, by His grace. 

Gently wrapt around me, 
I shall show as calm a face, 

I shall sleep as soundly — 
Differing in this, that you 

Clasp your playthings sleeping. 
While my hand must drop the few 

Given to my keeping — 

Differing in this, that I, 

Sleeping, tnustbe colder, 
And in waking presently. 

Brighter to beholder — 




Pure and true affection, well I know 

Leaves in the heart no room for selfishness, 

Such love of all our virtues is the gem; 

Of heaven it is, and heavenly; woe to them 

Who make it wholly earthly and of earth! 

Robert Southkv, 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



211 



Differing in this beside 

(Sleeper, have jou heard me? 
Do you move, and open wide 

Your great eyes toward me?) 
That while I j'ou draw withal 

From this slumber solely, 
Me, from mine, an angel shall, 

Trumpet-tongued and holy ! 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



LOCHINVAR. 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the 

west; 
Through all the wide border his steed was 

the best; 
And save his good broad-sword he weapons 

had none; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not 

for stone; 
He swam the Eske river where ford there 

was none ; 
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant came 

late ; 
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
invar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and broth- 
ers, and all; 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 
his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never 
a word,) 

" Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in 
war. 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Loid 
Lochinvar?" 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you 
denied — 



Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 

its tide — 
And now I am come, with this lost love of 

mine. 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of 

wine ; 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely 

by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young 

Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet — the knight 

took it up; 
He quaffed otl' the wine, and he threw down 

the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked 

up to sigh. 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her niother 

could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure!" said voung 

Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 
While her mother did fret and her father 

did fiune. 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume; 
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere 

better by far 
To have matched our fair cousin with 

young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 

her ear, 
When they reached the hall door and the 

charger stood near; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
"She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, 

and scaur; 
They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," 

quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the 
Netherby clan; 



213 ILLUSTRATED 


HOME BOOK 


Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 


May 's in all the Italian books; 


rode and they ran : 


She has old and modern nooks. 


There was racing, and chasing, on Canno- 


Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, 


bie Lee, 


In happy places they call shelves. 


But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 


And will rise and dress your rooms 


they see. 


Mith a drapery thick with blooms. 


So daring in love, and so dauntless in war^ 




Have ye. e'er heard of gallant like young 


Come, ye rains, then, if ye will, 


Lochinvar? 

Sir Walter Scott. 


May's at home and with me still; 
But come rather, thou good ^veather, 




And find us in the fields together. 

Leigh Hint. 




IVIAY. 
May, thou month of rosy beaut}-, 






Month when pleasure is a duty; 
Month of maids that milk the kine, 


LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 


Bosom rich, and health divine; 
Month of bees and month of flowers, 
Month of blossom-laden bowers; 
Month of little hands with daisies, 
Lover's love, and poet's praises; 
O thou merry month complete, 
May, the very name is sweet! 
May was maid in olden times — 
And is still in Scottish rhymes— 


The fountains mingle with the river, 

And the rivers with the ocean; 
The winds of heaven mix for ever, 

With a sweet emotion ; 
Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine.'' 


^L1y 's the month that 's laughing now. 




I no sooner write the word, 


See the mountains kiss high heaven. 


Than it seems as though it heard, 


And the waves clasp one another; 


And looks up and laughs at me. 


No sister flower would be forgiven 


Like a sweet face, rosily, — 


If it disdained its brother; 


Flushing from the paper's white ; 


And the sunlight clasps the earth. 


Like a bride that knows her power 


And the moonbeams kiss the sea; — 


Startled in a summer bower. 


What are all these kisses worth. 




If thou kiss not me.' 


If the rains that do us wrong 


Percy Bysshe Shelley. 


Come to keep the winter long 




And deny us thy sweet looks. 




I can love thee, sweet, in books; 


— ■ 


Love thee in the poet's pages. 




Where they keep thee green for ages; 


MY LOVE. 


, Love and read thee as a lover 




Reads his lady's letter over. 


I, 


Breathing blessings on the art 




Which commingles those that part. 
There is May in books for ever : 
May will part from Spencer never ; 


Not as all other women are 
Is she that to my soul is dear; 
Her glorious fancies come from far, 


May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 


Beneath the silver evening-star; 


May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 


And yet her heart is ever near. 




f 



to tl)tJlOU)Ctg >^SC 



d 



Your voiceless lips O flowers ! are living preachers. Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor 

Each cup a pu p,t, and each leaf a book, " Weep without woe and blush without a crime " 

'"Kor^JnXsttol""™^^""^ '-'-' 

V our love sublime. Horace Smith. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



315 



Great feelings hath she of her own, 
Which lesser souls may never know; 
God giveth them to her alone, 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 



Yet in herself she dwelleth not. 
Although no home were half so fair; 
No simplest duty is forgot; 
Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 



She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise: 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 



She hath no scorn of common things; 
And, though she seem of other birth, 
Round us her heart entwines and clings. 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 



Blessing she is; God made her so; 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 



She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 



She is a woman — one in whom 

The spring-time of her childish years 

Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 



Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 



I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might. 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill. 
Goes wandering at its own will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 



And, on its full, deep breast serene, 

Like quiet isles my duties lie; 

It flows around them and between, 

And makes them fresh and fair and green 

Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James Russell Lowell. 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 

Come into the garden, Maud — 

For the black bat, night, has flown ! 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 

For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of love is on high. 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves. 
On a bed of daftbdil sky, 

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves' 
To faint in its light, and to die. 

All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casementjessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune — 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon, 

I said to the lily, " There is but one 
With whom she has heart to be gay. 

When will the dancers leave her alone.' 
She is wearv of dance and plav." 

Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
And half to the rising day; 



216 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Lovv '1 i\ '^*>'? and and loud on the stone 
The !.'iii*. -^ heel echoes away. 

I ' sid to t'^e rose, " The brief night goes 
In babb'e and i-evel and wine. 

O young 'ord-lover, what sighs are those, 
For on*' that will never be thine! 

But mine^ but mine," so I sware to the rose, 
" For t'ver and ever, mine! " 

And the ^oul of the rose went into my blood. 
As the music clashed in the hall; 

And long by the garden lake 1 stood, 
For I heard your rivulet fall 

From the lake to the meadow and on to 
the wood — 
Ovr wood, that is dearer than all — • 

From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs. 
He sets the jewel print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes — 
To the woody hollows in which we meet. 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender accacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake. 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake. 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake — 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls. 
Come hither! the dances are done; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
curls. 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 

There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 

She is coming, my dove, my dear, 
She is coming, my life, my fate! 

The red rose cries, " She is near, she is 
near;" 



And the white rose weeps, " She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear," 
And the lily whispers, " I wait." 

She is coming, my own, mv sweet! 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthly bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead — 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE SHIPWRECK. 

In vain the cords and axes were prepared, 
For now the audacious seas insult the yard; 
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid 

shade, 
And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. 
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, 
Her shattered top half buried in the skies. 
Then headlong plunging, thunders on the 

ground; 
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps 

resound ! 
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, 
And quivering with the wound in torment 

reels. 
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes. 
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's 

blows. 
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock 
Tears her strong bottom on the marble 

rock : 
Down on the vale of death, with dismal 

cries. 
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their 

eyes 
In wild despair: while yet another stroke. 
With deep convulsions, rends the solid oak; 
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell 
The lurking demons of destruction dwell, 
At length asunder torn her frame divides. 
And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. 

O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art 
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart; 



i 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



319 



Like him the smooth and mournful verse 

to dress 
In all the pomp of exquisite distress, 

Then too severely- taught by cruel fate, 

To share in all the perils I relate. 

Then might I, with unrivalled strains de- 
plore 

The impervious horrors of a leeward shore ! 

^ As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast 
hung, 

Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung; 

Some, struggling, on a broken crag were 
cast, 

And there bv oozy tangles grappled fast. 

Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming bil- 
lows' rage. 

Unequal combat with their fate to wage; 

Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego 

Their slippery hold, and sink to shades 
below. 

Some, from the main yard-arm impetuous 
thrown 

Qji marble ridges, die without a groan. 

Three with Palemon on their skill depend, 

And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- 
scend. 

Now on the mountain wave on high they 
ride. 

Then downward plunge beneath the in- 
volving tide. 

Till one, who seems in agony to strive. 

The whirling breakers heave on shore 
alive; 

The rest a speedier end of anguish knew. 

And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew ! 
William Falconer. 



WIDOW MACHREE. 



Widow machree,it's no wonder vou frown — 

Ocli hone! widow machree 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 
black gown — 
* Och hone! widow machree. 



How altered your air, 

With that close cap you wear — 

'T is destroying your hair, 

Which should be flowing free: 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl — 

Och hone! widow machree! 



Widow machree, now the summer is come— 

Och hone! widow machree 
When every thing smiles, should a beautv 
look glum.' 
Och hone! widow machree! 
See the birds go in pairs. 
And the rabbits and hares — 
Why, even the bears 

Now in couples agree; 
And the mute little fish. 
Though they can 't spake, they wish — 
Och hone! widow machree. 



Widow machree, and when winter comes 
in — 
Och hone! widow machree — 
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 
Och hone! widow machree. 
Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs. 
And the kettle sings songs 

Full of family glee; 
While alone with your cup. 
Like a hermit you sup, 

Och hone ! widow machree. 



And how do you know, with the comforts 
I 've towld — , 

Och hone! widow machree — 
But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in 
the cowld, 
Och hone! widow machree! 
With such sins on your head, 
Sure your peace would be fled ; 
Could you sleep in your bed 



220 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite, 
That would wake you each night, 

Crying, " Och hone! widow ma- 
chree!" 



Then take my advice, darling widow ma- 
chree — 
Och hone! widow niachree — 
And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd 
take me, 
Och hone! widow machree! 
You 'd have me to desire 
Then to stir up the fire ; 
And sure hope is no liar 

In whispering to me, 
That the ghosts would depart 
When you 'd me near your heart — 
Och hone! widow machree! 

Samuel Lover. 



AFTER THE SEASON. 

At last 't is over, doggie dear, 

The folks are fled, and town 's deserted : 
The Park is desolate and drear. 

Where once we walked and — some girls 
—flirted. 
Here, on the white cliff's grass-grown 
brink, 

'Neath which the blue sea frets and tosses. 
We '11 rest ourselves awhile, and think 

About the season's gains and losses. 

Ah me! It seems but yesterday 

The boughs with blossoms rich were 
laden ; 
It was the merry month of May, 

And I, a merry-hearted maiden. 
Now, ly^e a wild bird safely caged, 

A captor my lost heart is caging; — 
What wonder I should be engaged 

To Guy, whose ways are so engaging.^ 

Aunt Mary says that love 's a myth, 
And other heresies advances ; 

She vows she has no patience with 
A girl who throws away her chances. 



My cousin hopes that " Eva knows 

What's best, but must take leave to doubt 
it," 

And shakes her head — which only shows 
How little she can know about it! 

It may not be in others' eyes 

A W'ealthv match; but I've a notion 
A wealth we never should despise 

Is that of firm and deep devotion. 
And, as I say, when cousin Nell 

Laments that we can't keep a carriage, 
Sometimes when young girls " marry well," 

It doesn't prove a well-made marriage. 

The Earl who filled my school-day dream 

When I was small and rather silly. 
Might have supplied a splendid team 

To dash me down through Piccadillv. 
But of this truth right sure am I : 

No mode of travel known at present 
Compares to rambling on with Guv 

Thro' fields of fancy, fresh and pleasant L 

The Earl would have grand castles, plac'd 

In several counties, I conjecture; 
Arranged with most luxurious taste, 

Of most imposing architecture. 
But where is one so rich and rare 

(Though practical old folks may quiz it) 
As that grand castle in the air 

Which Guy and I so often \isit.'' 

Which are most precious, pure and bright, 

(I know how /should make selection!) 
The gems that gleam with radiant light. 

Or eyes that beam with fond aftection.' 
And Guv's so good, and true, and hold, 

With such a splendid air about .him ; 
He should have been a knight of old — 

Only I could n't live without him! 

I'm sure 't is wise to marry Guy, 

For triie love is a peerless blessing; 
The way some parents let men bu_\' 

Their daughters, is, I think, distressing. 
I place that foremost 'mid the lot 

Of things that should at once be seen to; 
I 'm sure it 's wise — and if it 's not, 

It doesn't matter, for I mean to! 

Alfred E. T. Watson. 







AFTER THE SEASON. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



223 



THE FIRST QUARREL. 

IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 

" Wait a little," you say, "you are sure it'll 

all come right," 
But the boy was born i' trouble, an' looks 

so wan an' so white : 
Wait! an' once I ha' waited — I hadn't to 

wait for long. 
Now I wait, wait, wait for Harry. — No, no, 

you are doing me wrong! 
Harry and I were married : the boy can 

hold up his head, 
The boy was born in wedlock, but after my 

man was dead ; 
I ha' work'd for him fifteen years, an' I 

work an' I wait to the end. 
I am alone in the world, an' you are my 

only friend. 

Doctor, xi yoii can wait, I'll tell you the tale 

o' my life. 
When Harry an' I were children, he call'd 

me his own little wife ; 
I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry 

when he was away. 
An' when we play'd together, I loved him 

better than play ; 
He workt me the daisy chain — he made me 

the cowslip ball. 
He fought the boys that were rude, an' I 

loved him better than all. 
Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home 

in disgrace, 
I never could quarrel with Harry — I had 

but to look in his face. 



There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's 

kin, that had need 
Of a good stout lad at his farm; he sent, 

an' the father agreed ; 
So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire 

farm for years an' for years; 
I walked with him down to the quay, poor 

lad, an' we parted in tears. 



The boat was beginning to move, we heard 

them a-ringing the bell, 
' I'll never love any but you, God bless you, 

my own little Nell.' 

I was a child, an' he was a child, an' he 

came to harm ; 
There was a girl, a hussy, that workt with 

him up at the farm, 
One had deceived her an' left her alone 

with her sin an' her shame, 
And so she was wicked with Harry; the 

girl was the most to blame. 

And years went over, till I that was little 
had grown so tall, 

The men would say of the maids, ' Our 
Nelly's the flower of 'em all ' 

I didn't take heed o' them^ but I taught my- 
self all I could 

To make a good wife for Ihu-ry, when 
Harry came home for good. 

Often I seem'd unhappy, and often as happy, 
too. 

For I heard it abroad in the fields, ' I'll 
never love any but you ;' 

' I'll never love any but you,' the morning 
song of the lark, 

'I'll never love any but you,' the nightin- 
gale's hymn in the dark. 

And Harry came home at last, but he look'd 

at me sidelong and shy, 
Vext me a bit, till he told me that so many 

years had gone by, 
I had grown so handsome and tall — that I 

might ha' forgot him somehow — 
For he thought — there were other lads — he 

was fear'd to look at me now. 



Hard was the frost ^in the field, we were 

married o' Christmas day. 
Married among the red berries, an' all as 

merry as May — 



'i~4 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Those were the pleasant times, my house 
an' my man were my pride, 

We seem'd like ships i' the channel a-saii- 
ins; with wind an' tide. 



But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried 

the villages round. 
So Harry went over the Solent to see if 

work could be found; 
An' he wrote ' I ha' six weeks' work, little 

wife, so far as I know; 
I'll come for an hour to-morrow, an' kiss 

you before I go.' 



So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he 

coming that day ? 
An' I hit on an old deal-box that was push'd 

in a corner away. 
It was full of old odds an' ends, an' a letter 

along wi' the rest, 
I had better ha' put my naked hand in a 

hornets' nest. 



' Sweetheart' — this was the letter — this was 

the letter I read — 
' You promised to find me work near you, 

an' I wish I was dead — 



Didn't you kiss me an' promise.^ you 

haven't done it, my lad. 
An' I almost died o' your going away, an' 

I wish that I had.' 

I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times 
that had past, 

Before I quarrell'd with Harry — my quar- 
rel — the first an' the last. 

For Harry came in, an' I flung him the let- 
ter that drove me wild. 

An' he told it me all at once, as simple as 
any child, 

'What can it matter my lass, what I did wi' 
my single life.? 



I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to 

his wife ; 
An' s//e wasn't one o' the -worst.' 'Then,' 

I said, ' I'm none o' the best.' 
An' he smiled at me, ' Ain't you, my love.'' 

Come, come, little wife, let it rest! 
The man isn't like the woman, no need to 

make such a stir.' 
But he anger'd me all the more, an' I said 

' You were keeping with her, 
When I was a-iloving you all along an' the 

same as before.' 
An' he didn't speak for a while, an' he 

anger'd me more an' more. 



Then he patted my hand in his gentle way 

' Let bygones be ! ' 
'Bygones! you kept yours hush'd,' I said, 

' when you married me ! 
By-gones ma' be come-agains ; an' she — in 

her shame an' her sin — 
You'll have her to nurse my child, if I die 

o' my lying in! 

You'll make her its second mother! I hate 

her — an' I hate you! ' 
Ah, Harry, my man, you had better ha' 

beaten me black an' blue 
Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when 

I were so crazy wi' spite, 
» Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it'll all 

come right.' 



An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I 

watch'd him, an' when he came in 
I felt that my heart was hard, ihe was all 

wet thro' to the skin, 
An' I never said ' off wi' the wet,' I never 

said 'on wi' the dry,' 
So I knew my heart was hard, when he 

came to bid me good-bye. 
' You said that you hated me, Ellen, but 

that isn't true, you know; 
I am going to leave you a bit — ^^'ou'll kiss 

me before I go?' 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



225 



'Going! you're going to her — kiss lier — if 

you will,' I said, — 
I was near my time wi' the l)oy, I must lia' 

been light i' my head — 
' I had sooner be cursed than kiss'd ! ' — I 

didn't know well what I meant, 
But I turn'd my face from hini^ an' he 

turn'd his face an' he went. 



And he sent me a letter, ' I've gotten my 
work to do; 

You wouldn't kiss me, my lass, an' I never 
loved any but you; 

I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry for 
what she wrote, 

I ha' six weeks' work in Jersey an' go to- 
night by the boat.' 



An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought 
of him out at sea. 

An' felt I had been to blame; he was al- 
ways kind to me. 

' Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it'll all 
come right' — 

An' the boat went down that night — the 
boat went down that night. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



HELLVELLYN. 

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty 
Hellvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd 
misty and wide; 

All was still, save by fits when the eagle 
was yelling, 
And starting around me the echoes re- 
plied. 

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red- 
tarn was bending. 

And Catchedicam its left verge was de- 
fending, 



One huge nameless rock in the front was 
ascending. 
When I mark'd the sad spot where the 
wanderer had died. 

Dark green was the spot mid the brown 
meadow heather, 
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd 
in decay, — 

Like the course of an outcast abandon'd to 
weather, 
Till the mountain-winds w^asted the 
tenantless clay. 

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely ex- 
tended. 

For faithful in death, his mute favourite at- 
tended. 

The much-loved remains of her master de- 
fended, 
And chased the hill-fox and the raven 
away. 

How long didst thou think that his silence 

was slumber.'' 
When the wind waved his garment how 

oft didst thou start.? 
How many long days and long weeks didst 

thou rmmber, 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of 

thy heart.'' 
And, oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem 

read o'er him. 
No mother to weep, and no friend to de- 
plore him, 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd 

before him — 
Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should 

depart.'' 

When a prince to the fate of the peasant 
has yielded, 
The tap'stry weaves dark round the 
dim-lighted hall ; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 
shielded. 
And pages stand mute by the canopied 
nail : 



226 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Through the courts, at deep midnight, the 

torches are gleaming. 
In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners 
are beaming, 
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is 

streaming, 
Lamenting a chief of the people should 
fall. 

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. 
To lay down thy head like the meek 
mountain lamb; 

When, wilder'd he drops from some cliff 
huge in stature. 
And draws his last sob by the side of 
his dam. 

And more stately thy couch by this desert 
lake lying. 

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover fly- 
ing, 

With one faithful friend to witness thy dy- 
ing, 
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catch- 
edicam. 

Sir Walter Scott. 



AN INVITATION. 
"They that seek ine early shall find me." 

Come, while the blossoms of thy years are 
brightest, 
Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery 
maze, 
Come, while the restless heart is bounding 
lightest. 
And joy's pure sunbeams tremble in thy 
ways; 
Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer- 
buds unfolding. 
Waken rich feelings in the youthful 
breast, 
While yet thy hand the ephemeral wreath 
is holding, 
Come — and secure interminable rest! 



Soon will the freshness of thy daysbeoser, 
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown; 
Pleasure will fold her wing, and friend and 
lover 
Will to the embraces of the worm have 
gone ; 
Tb.ose who now love thee will have pass'd 
forever. 
Their looks of kindness will be lost to 
thee; 
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's 
fever, 
As thy sick heart broods over years to 
be! 



Come, while the morning of thy life is 
glowing, 
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing 
die; 
Ere the gay spell which earth is round thee 
throwing 
Fades, like the crimson from a sunset 
sky; 
Life hath but shadows, save a promise 
given. 
Which lights the future with a fadeless 
ray; 
O, touch the sceptre! — win a hope in 
Heaven. 
Come, turn thy spirit from the world 
away! 



Then will the crosses of this brief existence 
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul ; — 
And, shining brightly in the forward dis- 
tance. 
Will of thy patient race appear the goal; 
Home of the weary ! — where, in peace re- 
posing, 
Tiic spirit lingers in unclouded bliss, 
Though o'er its dust the ciu-tain'd grave is 
closing. 
Who would not, early, choose a lot like 
this.? 

Willis G. Clark. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



227 



PHIL BLOOD'S LEAP. 

A TALE OF THE GOLD-SEEKERS. 

" There's some thinks Injins pison * * 

*" It was Parson Pete that spoke, 
As we sat there, in the camp-fire glare, like 

shadows among the smoke. 
'Twas the dead of night, and in the light 

our faces shone bright red. 
And the wind all round made a screeching 

sound, and the f)ines roared overhead* 



A J, Parson Pete was talking : we called 

him Parson Pete, 
For jou must learn he'd a talking turn, and 

handled things so neat: 
He'd a preaching style, and a winning 

smile, and when all talk was spent, 
Six-shooter had he, and a sharp bowie, to 

point his argument. 



Some one had spoke of the Injin folk, and 

we had a guess, you bet. 
They might be creeping, while we were 

sleeping, to catch us in the net; 
And the half-asleep were snoring deep, 

while the others vigil kept. 
But never a one let go his gun, wliether he 

woke or slept. 



"There's some think Injins pison, and 

others fancy 'em scum, 
And most would slay them out of the way, 

clean into Kingdom come; 
But don't you go and make mistakes, like 

many dern'd fools I've known. 
For dirt is dirt, and snakes is snakes, but 

an Injin's flesh and bone!" 



We were seeking gold in the Texan hold, 
and we'd had a blaze of luck. 

More rich and rare the stuff" ran there at 
every foot we struck; 



Like men gone wild we toiled and toiled, 

and never seemed to tire. 
The hot sun glared, and our faces flared, 

with the greed o' gain, like fire. 



I was captain of the mining men, and I had 

a precious life. 
For a wilder set I never met at derringer 

and at knife; 
Nigh every day there was some new fray, 

and a shot in some one's brain. 
And the blackest sheep in all the flock was 

an imp of sin, from Maine, 

Phil Blood. Well, he was six foot three, 

with a squint to make you skear'd. 
His face all scabb'd, and twisted, and stabb'd, 

with carroty hair and beard. 
Sour as the drink in Bitter Chink, sharp as 

a grizzly's squeal. 
Limp in one leg, for a leaden egg had 

nicked him in the heel. 



He was the primest workman there! — 'twas 

a sight to see him toil ! 
To the waist all bare, all devil and dare, the 

sweat on his cheeks like oil ; 
With pickaxe and spade in sun and shade 

he labored like the nation. 
But when the spell was over, — well, he 

liked recreation. 



And being a crusty kind of cuss, the only 

sport he had 
When work was over seemed to us a bit 

too rough and bad ; 
For to put some lead in a fellow's head was 

the greatest fun in life, 
And the only joke he liked to poke was the 

point of his precious knife. 

But game to the bone was Phil, I'll own, 
and he always fought most fair. 

With as good a will to be killed as kill, true 
grit as any there: 



228 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Of honor, too, like me or you, he'd a scent, 

though not so keen, 
Would rather be riddled through and 

through than do what he thought 

mean. 

But his eddication to his ruination had not 

been over nice, 
And his stupid skull was choking full of 

vulgar prejudice; 
For a white man he was an ekal, free to be 

fought in open frav. 
But an Injin a snake (make no mistake !) to 

scotch in any way. 

*' A sarpent's hide has pison inside, and an 

Injin heart's as bad, — 
He'll seem your friend for to gain his end, 

but they hate the white like mad : 
Worse than the least of bird or beast, never 

at peace till dead, 
A spotted snake, and no mistake!" that's 

what he always said. 

Well, we'd just struck our bit of luck, and 

were wild as raving men. 
When who should stray to camp one day, 

but Black Panther, the Cheyenne; 
Dressed like a christian, all a-grin, the old 

one joins our band, 
And though the rest looked black as sin, he 

shakes me by the hand. 

Now, the poor old cuss had been known to 

us, and I knew that he was true, — 
I'd have trusted him with life and limb as 

soon as I'd trust you; 
For though his wit was gone a bit, and he 

drank like any fish, 
His heart was kind, he was well-inclined, 

as even a white could wish. 

Food had got low, for we didn't know the 
run of the hunting-ground. 

And our hunters were sick, when just in 
the nick, the friend in need was 
found ; 



For he knew the place like his mother's 
face (or better, a heap, you'd say. 

Since she was a squaw of the roaming race, 
and himself a cast-away). 

Well, I took the Panther into camp, and tlie 

critter was well content, 
And off with him, on the hunting tramp, 

next day our party went. 
And I reckon that day and the next we 

didn't hunger for food, 
And only one in the camp looked vexed — 

that imp of sin, Phil Blood. 

Nothing would please his contrairy idees! 

an Injin made him boil ! 
But he said naught and he scowling 

wrought from morn till night at his 

toil. 
And I knew his skin was hatching sin, and 

I kept the Panther apart. 
For the Injin he was too weak to see the 

depths of a white man's heart. 

One noon-da^', when myself and the men 

were resting by the creek, 
The red sun blazed, and we lay half-dazed, 

too tired to stir or speak ; 
'Neath the alder trees we stretched at ease, 

and we couldn't see the sky. 
For the lien-flowers in bright blue showers 

hung through the branches high. 

It was like the gleam of a fairy-dream, and 
I felt the earth's first man. 

In an Eden bower with the yellow flower 
of a cactus for a fan ; 

Oranges, peaches, grapes, and figs, cluster- 
ed, ripened, and fell. 

And the cedar scent was pleasant, blent 
with the soothing 'cacia smell. 

The squirrels red ran overhead, and I saw 

the lizards creep. 
And the woodpecker bright with the chest 

so white tapt like a sound in sleep; 



4 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



229 



I lay and dozed with eves half closed, and 
felt like a three-jear child, 

And, a plantain blade on his brow for a 
shade, even Phil Blood looked mild. 

Well, back jest then came our hunting men, 

with the Panther at their head, 
Full of his fun was every one, and the 

Panther's eyes were red, 
And he skipt about with grin and shout, 

for he'd had a drop that day. 
And he twisted and twirled, and squealed 

and skirled, in the foolish Injin wav. 

To the waist all bare Phil Blood lay there, 

with only his knife in his belt, 
And I saw his bloodshot eye-balls flare, and 

I knew how fierce he felt, 
When the Ingin dances with grinning 

glances around him as he lies. 
With his painted skin and monkey grin, — 

and leers into his eyes. 

ITien before I'knew what I should do Phil 

Blood was on his feet, 
And the Ingin could trace the hate in his 

face, and his heart began to beat, 
And " Get out o' the way," he heard them 

say, " for he means to hev your life !" 
But before he could fly at the warning cry, 

he saw the flash of the knife. 

" Run, Panther, run .' " cried every one, and 

the Panther took the track. 
With a wicked glare, like a wounded bear, 

Phil Blood sprang at his back. 
Up the side so steep of the canyon deep 

the poor old critter sped. 
And after him ran the devil's limb, till thev 

faded overhead. 

Now, the spot of ground where our luck 
was found was a queerish place,you'll 
mark. 

Jest under the jags of the mountain crags 
and the precipices dark, 



And the water drove from a fall above, and 
roared both day and night, 

And those that waded beneath were shaded 
hy crags to left and right. 

Far up on high, close to the sky, the two 

crags leant together, 
Leaving a gap, like an open trap, with a 

gleam of golden weather. 
And now and then when at work the men 

looked up they caught the bounds 
Of the deer that leap from steep to steep, 

and they seemed the size o' hounds. 

A pathway led from the beck's dark bed up 

to the crags on high. 
And up that path the Ingin fled, fast as a 

man could fly. 
Some shots were fired, for I desired to keep 

the white cuss back ; 
But I missed my man, and away he ran on 

the flying Ingin's track. 
***** 
Now all below is thick, you know, with 

'cacia, alder, and pine. 
And the bright shrubs deck the side of the 

beck, and the lien-flowers so fine. 
For the forest creeps all under the steeps, 

and feathers the feet of the crags 
With boughs so thick that your path you 

pick, like a steamer among the snags. 

But right above you, the crags. Lord love 

you ! are bare as this here hand, 
And your eyes you wink at the bright blue 

chink, as looking up you stand. 
If a man should pop in that trap at the top, 

he'd never rest hand or leg, 
Till neck and crop to the bottom he'd drop — 

and smash on the stones like an egg! 

Now, the breadth of the trap, though it 
seemed so small from the p'ace be- 
low, d'ye see. 

Was what a deer could easily clear, but a 
man — well, not for me\ 



260 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And it happened, yes! the path, I guess, 
led straight to that there place, 

And if one of the two didn't leap it, whew! 
they must meet there face to face. 

"Come back, jou cuss! come back to us! 

and let the critter be ! " 
I screamed out loud, while the men in a 

crowd stood gazing at them and me ; 
But up they went, and my shots were spent, 

and I shook as they disappeared, — 
One minute more, and we gave a roar, for 

the Ingin had leapt, — and cleared! 

A leap for a deer not a man, to clear, — and 

the bloodiest gi-ave below! 
But the critter was smart and mad with fear, 

and he went like a bolt from a bow, 
Close after him came the devil's limb, with 

his eyes as wild as death. 
But when he came to the gulch's brim, I 

reckon he paused for breath. 

For breath at the brink ! but — a white man 

shrink, when a red had passed so 

neat? 
I knew Phil Blood too well to think he'd 

turn his back dead beat! 
He takes one run, leaps up in the sun, and 

bounds from the slippery l°dge. 
And he clears the hole, but — God help his 

soul! just touches the other edge! 

One scrambling fall, one shriek, one call, 

from the men that stand and stare, — 
Black in the blue where the sky looks 

through, he staggers, dwarfed up 

. there ; 
The edge he touches, then sinks, and 

clutches the rock — my eyes grow 

dim — 
I turn away — what's that they say? — he's 

a-hanging on to the brim? 

* * * On the very brink of the fatal 
chink a wild thin shrub there grew. 

And to that he clung, and in silence swung 
betwixt us and the blue, 



And as soon as a man could run I ran the 

way I'd seen them flee. 
And I came mad-eyed to the chasm's side, 

and — what do you think I see? 

All up? Not quite? Still hanging? Right! 

But he'd torn away the shrub ; 
With lolling tongue he clutched and swung 

— to what? ay, that's the rub! 
I saw him glare and dangle in air, — for the 

empty hole, you know, — 
Helped hy ^ fair of hands up there! — The 

Injin's? Yes tkafs so! 

Now, boys, look here! for many a year I've 

roughed in this here land — 
And many a sight both day and night I've 

seen that I think grand; 
Over the whole world I've been, and I know 

both things and men, 
But the biggest sight I've ever seen was the 

sight I saw just then. 

I held my breath — so nigh to death the cuss 

swung hand and limb. 
And it seemed to me that down he'd flee, 

with the Panther after him. 
But the Injin at length puts out his 

strength, and another minute passed, 
— And safe and sound to the solid ground 

he drew Phil Blood at last. 

Saved? True for you! By an Injin too — 

and the man he meant to kill! 
There all alone, on the brink of stone, I see 

them standing still; 
Phil Blood gone white, with the struggle 

and fright, like a great mad bull at 

bay, 
And the Injin meanwhile, with a half' 

skeered smile, ready to spring away. 

What did Phil do? Well, I watched the 
two, and I saw Phil Blood turn back, 

Then he leant to the brink and took a blink 
into the chasm black, 



r 



Ol- rOETRr AND SONG. 



2n 



Then, stooping low for a moment or so, he 

took his bovvie bright, 
And he chucked it down the gulf with a 

frown, and whistle, and lounged from 

sight. 

Hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, silent, 

thoughtful, and grim, 
While the Panther, grinning as he passed, 

still kept his eyes on him ; 
Phil Blood strolled slow to his mates below, 

down by a mountain track, 
With his lips set tight and his face all white, 

and the Panther at his back. 

I reckon they stared when the two ap- 
peared! but never a word Phil spoke. 

Some of them laughed and others jeered, 
— but he let them have their joke; 

He seemed amazed, like a man gone dazed) 
the sun in his eyes too bright, 

And, in spite of their cheek, for many a 
week, he never offered to fight. 

And after that day he changed his play, and 

kept a civiller tongue, 
And whenever an Injin came that way his 

contrairy head he hung; 
But whenever he heard the lying word, 

" //'5« LIE !" Phil Blood would groan ; 
*' A Snake is a Snake, make no mistake ! but 

ati Injin's flesh and boneP'' 

Robert Buchanan. 



DOT BABY OFF MINE. 

Mine cracious! Mine cracious! shust look 

here und see 
A Deutscher so habby as habby can pe. 
Der beoples all dink dat no prains I haf 

got, 
Vas grazy mit trinking, or someding like 

dot; 
Id vasn't pecause I trinks lager und vine, 
It vas all on a^irount ofl" dot babv oft" mine. 



Dot schmall leedle vellow I dells you vas 

qveer ; 
Not mooch pigger roundt as a goot glass 

off beer, 
Mit a bare-footed hed, and nose but a 

sphpeck, 
A mout dot goes most to der pack off his 

neck, 
Und his leedle pink^ toes mit der rest all 

combine 
To give sooch a charm to dot baby oft" mine, 

I dells you dot baby vas von off der poys, 
Und beats leedle Yawcop for making a 

noise; 
He shust has pecun to shbeak goot English, 

too. 
Says " mama," und " bapa," und somedimes 

" ah — goo!" 
You don't find a baby den dimes out ofi 

nine 
Dot vos qvite so schmart as dot baby oft' 

mine. 

He grawls der vloor ofer, und drows dings 

aboudt, 
Und puts efryding he can find in his mout; 
He dumbles der sthairs down, und falls 

vrom his chair, 
Und gifes mine Katrina von derrible sckare; 
Mine hair shtands like shquills on a mat 

borcubine 
Yen I dinks off dose pranks off dot baby 

oft" mine. 

Dere vas someding, you pet, I don'd likes 

pooty veil ; 
To hear in der nighdtrdimes dot young 

Deutscher yell, 
Und dravel der ped-room midout many 

clo'es, 
\'hile der chills down der shpine oft" mine 

pack quickly goes; 
Dose leedle shimnasdic dricks vasn't so 

fine, 
Dot I cuts oop at nighdt mit dot baby off 

mine. 



232 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Veil, dese leedle schafers vas goin' to pe 
men, 

Und all off dese droubles vill peen ofer den; 

Dey vill vare a vhite shirt vront inshted off 
a bib, 

Und vouldn't got tucked oop at nighdt in 
deir crib — 

Veil! veil! ven I'm feeple und in life's de- 
cline. 

May mine oldt age pe cheered by dot baby 
off mine. 

Charlks F. Adams. 



"'TIS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD 
BE UNMOVED." 

Written at Missolong^hi on the Poet's Thirty-sixth 
birthday, January 22nd, 1824. 

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 

Since others it hath ceased to move ! 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The tiowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 

The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle; 

No torch is kindled at its blaze — 

A funeral pile ! 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not here — 

Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor 

Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field. 
Glory and Greece around me see! 



The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake! (not Greece — she is awake!) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through -whom 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home! 

Tread those reviving passions down, 

Unworthy manhood! — unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regret'st thy youth, -why live? 

The land of honorable death 
Is here : — up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out - less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thy rest. 

Lord Byron. 



THE OCEAN. 

There is a iilcastne in the pathless 

woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore; 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I 

steal 
From ill I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all 

conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean 

—roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee 

in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his 

control 



OF POEinr AND SOiVG. 



233" 



Stops with the shore; — upon the wa- 
tery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth re- 
main 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his 
own, 

When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and 
imknown. 

His steps are not upon thy path, — thy 
fields 

Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 

And shake him from thee; the vile 
strength he wields 

For earth's destruction thou dost all de- 
spise, 

Spurning him from thy bosom to the 

skies, 
• And send'st him, shivering in thy play- 
ful spray 

And howling, to his gods, where haply 
lies 

His petty hope in some near port or bay 
And dashest him again to earth; — there let 
him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities,bidding nations quake. 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 

make 
Their chiy creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 

flake, 
Thev melt into thy yeastof waves, which 

mair 
Alike the Armada's pride, o» spoils ot 

Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all 

save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what 

are they? 



Thy waters wasted them while they were 

free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shores 

obey 
And stranger, slave, or savage; their de- 
cay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so 

thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 

play — 
Time writes no wrinkles on thy azure 

brovv — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roll- 

est now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
mighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests: in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, 

or storm. 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; boundles, endless, and 

sublime — 
The image of eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible; even from out thy 

slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each 
zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
less, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! And mv 

joy 

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to 

be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a 

boy 
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to 

me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing 

fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I 

do here. 

Lord Byron. 



0;>4 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE COUNTESS OF LUNN. 

♦' I won't deny that I love jou Ned, — 
Had JOU asked me sooner, yon might 
have won : 
I had another ofler to day, 

And now — I think I'll be Countess of 
Lunn. 

"I always was fond of titles, you know; 

And oh, Ned, won't it be jolly fun. 
When away off yonder on British shores, 

To know you are loved by the Countess 
of Lunn? " 

" 'Tis hard to lose you, my only love," 

He sadly whispered, and gently sighed; 
" When the London season recalled us 
home 
I had hoped to make you my bonny 
bride." 

For a moment silence reigned supreme 
On the moonlit slopes of the " castled 
Rhine;" 
And two hearts 'neath the silvery beam 
With the flow of the restless waves kept 
time. 

Said he : " For a nobleman's title I'm 
spurned, 
But I swear I'll not live a bachelor's life; 
Now tell me, of all your dear girl friends. 
Which think you would make me the 
fittest wife.'' 

" Now, there's Mabel Rand, with her coal- 
black eyes, 

And hair like the glint of a raven's wing; 
'T would be nice at the theater, opera, ball. 

To call her my own — the darling thing. 

"What's that you're saying.'' 'A saucy 
flirt .' ' 

I always thought you admired her style! 
Ah ! now I have it — your dearest friend. 

That sweet little fairy, Bessie Lisle. 



" 'Twill be sweet through the leafy woods 
to roam 
When the sunlight dies in the crimson 
west ; 
Her soft gold ringlets my cheeks shall fan, 
And her rosebud lips to my own be 
prest." 

" No, no," she cried, with a startled look, 
As in wild despair to his arm she clung; 

Then softly whispered : " O, dearest Ned, 
I think — I won't be Countess of Lunn! " 

Cora A. Teller. 



LOVE NOT. 

Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of 

clay ! 
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly 

flowers — 

Things that are made to fade and fall away 

Ere they have blossomed for a few short 

hours. 

Love not! 

Love not! the thing ye love may change; 
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, 
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and 

strange, 
The heart still warmly beat, yet notbetrue- 
Love not! 

Love not! the thing you love may die — 
May perish from the gay and gladsome 

earth ; 
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, 
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 
Love not! 

Love not! oh warning vainly said 
In present hours as in years gone by ; 
Love flings a halo round the dear one's 

head. 
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 
Love not! 

Hon. Caroline Norton, 




ox THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth is never dead: 

When all the birds are taint with the hot 
Sim 

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge among the new- 
mown mead. 

That is the grasshopper's — he takes the 
lead 

In summer luxury, — he has never done 

With his delights ; tor, when tired out 
■with tun, 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant 
weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never. 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove 

there shrills 
The Cricket's song in warmth increas- 
ing ever. 
And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy 



hills 



John Ke.\ts. 



LULLABY. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow. 

Wind of the western sea ! 
Over the rolling waters go ; 
Come from the dying moon and blow, 

Blow him again to me; 
While my little one, while mv pretty 
one, sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Rest, rest on mother's breast; 

Father will come to thee soon. 
Father will come to his babe in the nest; 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon; 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my prettv one, 
sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



CHILDREN. 

Children are what the mothers are. 
No fondest fatlier's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 

A father near him on his knee. 

Who wishes all the while to trace 

The mother in his future face; 

But 't is to her alone uprise 

His wakening arms; to her those eves 

Open with joy and not surprise. 

W.^LTER Savage Landor. 



A RECEIPT FOR SALAD. 

To make this condiment your poet begs 

The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled 
eggs; 

Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitch- 
en sieve. 

Smoothness and softness to the salad give; 

Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl. 

And, half suspected, animate the whole; 

Of mordent mustard add a single spoon. 

Distrust the condiment that bites too soon ; 

But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault 

To add a double quantity of salt; 

Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca 
crown, 

And twice \vith vinegar, procured from 
town ; 

And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 

A magic soupcon of anchovy sauce. 

Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous 
treat ! 

'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; 

Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl; 
Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
"Fate cannot harm me, — I have dined 
to-day." 

Sydney Smith. 



236 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE USEFUL PLOW. 


SONNETS 


A COUNTRY life is sweet, 


ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF 


In moderate cold and heat. 


twenty-three. 


To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! 




In everj field of wheat, 


How soon hath time, the subtle thief of 


The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, 


youth, 


And every meadow's brow; 


Stolen on his wing my three and twen- 


So that, I say, no courtier m-iy 


tieth year! 


Compare with them who clothe in gray. 


My hasting days fly on with full career. 


And follow the useful plow. 


But my late spring no bud or blossom 




showeth. 


They rise with the morning lark. 


Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 


And labor till almost dark. 


truth. 


Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to 


That I to manhood am arrived so near; 


sleep. 


And inward ripeness doth much less 


While ever}' pleasant park 


appear 


Next morning is ringing with the birds 


That some more timely-happy spirits in- 


that are singing 


du'th. 


On each green, tender bough. 


Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, 


With whatconteht and merriment 


It shall be still in strictest. measure even 


Their days are spent, whose minds are bent 


To that same lot, however mean or high. 


To follow the useful plow! 


Toward which time leads me, and the will 




of heaven : 


Anonymous. 






All is, if I have grace to use it so. 




As ever in my great task-master's eye. 




John Milton. 


TAKE, OH! TAKE THOSE LIPS 




AWAY. 


AULD LANG SYNE. 


Take, oh ! take those lips away 


I. 


That so sweetly were forsworn, 


Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 


And those eyes, the break of day, 


And never brought to min'? 


Lights that do mislead the morn! 


Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 


But my kisses bring again. 


And days o' lang syne.' 


Seals of love, though sealed in vain. 


For auld lang syne, my dear, 




For auld lang syne. 




We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 


Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow 


For auld lang syne! 


Which thy frozen bosom bears, 




On whose tops the pinks that grow 


11 


Are of those that April wears. 


We twa hae run about the braes, 


But first set my poor heart free, 


And pu'd the govvans fine; 


Bound in those icy chains by thee. 


But we've wandered mony a weary foot 


Shakespeare and John Fletcher. 


Sin auld lang s>ne. 



OF POBTin- AND SONG. 



239 



We twa hae paidl't i' the burn 
Frae mornin' &un till dine; 

But seas between us braid hae roared 
Sin auld lang sj'ne. 



And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

And gie's a hand o' thine ; 
And we'll take a right guid wille-waught 

For auld lang syne! 



And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 

And surely V\\ be mine: 
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet 

For aidd lang syne. 
For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak ,1 cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne! 

Robert Burns. 



SPRING. 

Now the lusty Spring is seen; 

Golden yellow, gaudy blue, 

Daintily invite the view. 
Everywhere, on every green, 
Roses blushing as they blow. 

And enticing men to pull; 
Lilies whiter than the snow; 
Woodbines of sweet honey full — 

All love's emblems, and all cry : 

Ladies, if not plucked, we die! 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER 
BREATH. 

Softly woo away her breath. 

Gentle death ! 
Let her leave thee with no strife. 

Tender, mournful, murmering life! 



She hath seen her happy dav — 

She hath had her bud and blossom ; 

Now she pales and shrinks f.wav, 
Earth, into thy gentle bosom! 

She hath done her bidding here, 

Angels dear! 
Bear her perfect soul above. 

Seraph ol the skies — sweet love! 
Good she was, and fair in youth ; 

And her mind was seen to soar, 
And her heart was wed to truth: 

Take her, then, for evermore — 
For ever — evermore! 

Barry Cornwall 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



You must wake and call me early, call me 
early, mother dear ; 

To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all 
the glad new-year — 

Of all the glad new-year, mother, the mad- 
dest, merriest day ; 

For Fm to be queen o' the May, mother, 
Fm to be queen o' the Mav. 



There's many a black, black eye, thev say, 

but none so bright as mine; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate 

and Caroline; 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the 

land, they sa\- ; 
So Fm to be queen o' the Mav, mother, 

Fm to be queen o' the Mav. 



I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I 

shall ne\er \vake, 
If you do not call me loud, when the day 

begins to break ; 
But I must gather knots of flowers and 

buds, and garlands gay ; 
For Fm to be queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be queen o' the May. 



240 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



As I came up the vallev, whom tliink ye 

should I see, 
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath 

the hazel-tree? 
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I 

gave him yesterday, — 
But I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be queen o' the May. 



He thought I was a ghost, mother, for 1 

was all in white; 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a 

flash of light. 
They call me cruel -hearted, but I care not 

what they say, 
For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be queen o' the May. 

VI. 

They say he's dying all for love — but that 

can never be; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — 

what is that to me.' 
There's many a bolder lad'U woo me any 

summer day ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be queen o' the May. 



Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to 

the green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me 

made the queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come 

fiom far awa}' ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be queen o' the May. 



The honeysuckle round the porch has 

woven its wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the 

faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like 

fire in swamps and hollows gray ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be queen o' the May. 



The night-winds come and go, mother, 

upon the meadow-grass, 
And the happy stars above them seem to 

brighten as they pass; 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole 

of the livelong day ; 
And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be queen o' the May. 



All the valley, mother, '11 be fresh and green 
and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over 
all the hill. 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale '11 mer- 
rily glance and play, 

For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be queen o' the May. 



So you must wake and call me early, call 
me early, mother dear. 

Tomorrow '11 be the happiest time of all 
the glad new-year: 

To-morrow '11 be of all the year the mad- 
dest, merriest day. 

For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be queen o' the May. 



NEW YEAR S EVE. 



If you're waking, call me early, call me 

early, mother dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad 

new-year. 
It is the last new year that I shall ever see — 
Then you may lay me low i' the mould, 

and think no more of me. 



To-night I saw the sun set — he set and 

left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and 

all my peace of mind ; 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



241 



And the new \ear's coming up, mother; 

but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf 

upon the tree. 

III. 
Last May we made a crown of flowers; 

we had a merry day — 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they 

made me queen of May ; 
And we danced about the May-pole and 

in the hazel copse, 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the 

tall white chimney-tops. 



There 's not a flower on all the hills — the 

frost is on the pane; 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come 

again. 
I wish the snow would melt and the sun 

come out on high — 
I long to see a flower so before the day I 

die. 



The building rook '11 craw from the windy 

tall elm tree. 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow 

lea, 
And the swallow '11 come back again with 

summer o'er the wave. 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the 

mouldering grave. 



Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that 

gra\e of mine, 
In the early, early morning the summer 

sun 'll shine. 
Before the red cock crows from the farm 

upon the hill — 
When you are warm-asleep, mother, and 

all the world is still. 



When the flowers come again, mother, be- 
neath the waning light 

You '11 never see me more in the long gray 
fields at night; 



When from the dry dark wold the summer 

airs blow cool 
On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and 

the bulrush in the pool. 



You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath 

the hawthorn shade. 
And you '11 come sometimes and see me 

where I am lowly laid. 
I shall not forget you, mother; I shall 

hear you when you pass, 
With your feet above my head in the long 

and pleasant grass. 



I nave been wild and wayward, but you'll 

forgive me now; 
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my 

cheek and brow; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your 

grief be wild; 
You should not fret for me, mother, — 

you have another child. 



If I can, I '11 come again, mother, from out 

my resting place; 
Though you '11 not see me mother, I shall 

look upon your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall 

hearken what you say. 
And be often, often with you when you 

think I'm far away. 



Good-night! good-night! when I have said 

good-night for evermore. 
And you see me carried out from the 

threshold of the door, 
Don't let Effie come to see me till mv 

grave be growing green — 
She '11 be a better child to you than ever I 

have been. 



She '11 find my garden tools upon the gran- 
ary floor. 

Let her take 'em— they are hers; I shall 
never garden more. 



243 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



But tell lier, when I'm gone, to train the 

rose-bush that I set 
About the parlor window, and the box of 

mignonette. 

XIII. 

Good-night, sweet mother! Call me be- 
fore the day is born. 

All night 1 lie awake, but I fall asleep at 
morn ; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad 
new-year — 

So, if you're waking, call me, call me 
early, mother dear. 



COXCLLSION. 



I THOUGHT to pass awav before, and yet 

alive I am ; 
And in the fields all round I hear the 

bleating of the lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning 

of the year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came, and now 

the violet's here. 



Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes 

beneath the skies; 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to 

me that cannot rise; 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the 

flowers that blow ; 
And sweeter far is death than life, to me 

that longs to go. 



It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave 

the blessed sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet. 

His will be done! 
But still I think it can 't be long before I 

find release; 
And that good man the clergyman, has 

told me words of peace. 



Oh blessings on his kindly ^•oice, and on 

his silver hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until 

he meet me there! 
Oh blessings on his kindly heart and on 

his silver head! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt 

beside inv bed. 



He showed me all the mercy, for he taught 

me all the sin; 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late 

there's One will let me in. 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if 

that could be ; 
For mv desire is but to pass to Him that 

died- for me. 



I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the 

death-watch beat — 
There came a sweeter token when the 

night and morning meet; 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your 

hand in mine. 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell 

the sign. 



All in the wild March-morning I heard 

the angels call — 
It was when the moon was setting, and the 

dark was over all ; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind 

began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard 

them call my soul. 



For lying broad awake, I thought of you 

and Effie dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no 

longer here; 
With all my strength I prayed for both— 

and so I felt resigned. 
And up the valley came a swell of music 

on the wind. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



243 



I thought that it was fancy, and I listened 

in my bed ; 
And then did something speak to me — I 

know not what was said; 
For great delight and sliuddering took hold 

of all my mind, 
And up the valley came again the music 

on the wind. 



But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's 

not for them — it 's mine ; " 
And if it comes three times, I thought, I 

take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and close beside 

the window-bars — • 
Then seemed to go right up to heaven and 

die among the stars. 



So now I think my tiine is near; I trust it 

is. I know 
The blessed music went that way my soul 

will have to go. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go 

to-day ; 
But Effie, 3'ou must comfort her when I 

am past away. 



And say to Robin a kind word, and tell 

him not to fret ; 
There 's many worthier than I would make 

him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have 

been his wife ; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with 

m^ desire of life. 



Oh look! •'he sun begins to rise! the hea\- 

ens «ire in a glow; 
I le shines upon a hundred fields, and all of 

them I know. 
And there I move no longer now, and 

there his light may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands 

than mine. 



Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that 
ere this day is done 

The voice that nov*- is speaking mav be be- 
yond the sun — 

For ever and for ever with those just souls 
and true — 

And what is life, that we should moan.' 
why make we such ado.' 



For ever and for ever, all in a'blessed home, 
And there to wait a little while till you and 

Effie come — 
To lie w ithin the light of God, as I lie upon 

your breast — 
And the wicked cease from troubling, and 

the weary are at rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 

I REMEMBER, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little ^\ indow where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn; 
He never came a wink too soon, 
Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now, I often wished the night 
Had borne my breath away! 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 
The \iolets, and the lily-cups — 
Those tlowers made of light! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 
And where iny brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 
The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then. 

That is so heavy now. 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow ! 



244 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



I remember, I remember 


Or with FoxD Hopes — 


The fir-trees dark and high; 


As rosy-hued 


I used to tliink their slender tops 


As my Celia's damask cheek — 


Were close against the sky. 


When with blushes scarce subdued 


It was a childish ignorance, 


In maiden pride 


But now 't is little joy 


She turns aside 


To know I'm farther off from Heaven 


Whene'er my love I would outspeak'. 


Than when I was a'boy. 

Thomas Hood. 


With Riches— 

Golden as lier hair 




Where envious sunbeams frequent play, 




Tho' fain, uncertain to rest where 


TO THE EVENING STAR. 


'Midst locks so bright 
Theii- borrow'd light 
Must die, or livipg pass away ! 


Star that bringest home the bee, 


Or woo her with a Coroxet — 


And sett'st the weary laborer free! 
If any star shed peace, 't is thou. 

That send'st it from above, 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love. 


Rare jewels. 

Bright as her pure eyes, 
Which peep beneath their lashes wet, 

In coyest fear 

Lest love appear 
To claim their glances for his prize. 


Come to the luxuriant skies. 
Whilst the landscape's odors rise, 
Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard. 


Or suppliant, her Pity move 
With tears for my forlorn estate ; 
Such pity near akin to love. 


And songs when toil is done. 
From cottages whose smoke unstirred 


Ah, happy swain, 
Would she but deign 


Curls yellow in the sun. 


With my unworthiness to mate! 


Star of love's soft interviews, 
Parted lovers on thee muse; 


No! None of these will I address 
To her, my true-lov'd Valentine! 


Their remembrancer in Heaven 
Of thrilling vows thou ai t. 

Too delicious to be riven. 
By absence, from the heart. 


But with a longing tenderness 

I'll seek her bow'r. 

At twilight hour, ' 
And boldly claim to call her mine ! 


Thomas Campbell. 


There my Love alone I '11 plead, 




While Faith and Truth shall witness bear^ 




For Honors, Riches, I 've no need , 




By Cupid arm"d 
I'll rise unharmed 


MY VALENTINE. 


From stubborn conflict with despair. 


How, prithee, shall I woo my Love — 
My Valentine.' 

By MISSIVE sweet 
And scented as the airs that rove 
Around her bow'r 
At evening hour, 


And tho' no word to me she say, 
I '11 know by one sweet, tender sign 
That she forever, day by day, 
Thro' good and ill 
Will love me still, 
My own true-hearted Valentine! 


And vie in haste to kiss her feet; 


H. Frith. 



I 




1^ — 



Abide with me f-xst falls the e%entide. 
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide: 
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
Help of the helpless, O abide with me. 

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away. 
Change and decay in all around 1 see ; 
O, Thou who changest not, abide with me. 

W. H. LVTE. 



OF PUETRT AND SONG. 



247 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set, — but all, 
Thou hast all season's for thine own, O 
Death ! 



Day is for mortal care, 
Eve lor glad meetings round the joyous 
heartli. 
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice 
of prayer: 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the 
earth. 



The banquet hath its hour, 
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and 
wine; 
There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelm- 
ing power, 
A time for softer tears, — but all are thine. 

Youtli and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 
And smile at thee — but thou art not of 
those 
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their 
prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall. 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set — but all 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O 
Death! 

We know when moons shall wane. 
When summer-birds from far shall cross 
the sea, 
When autumn's hue shall tinge the gold- 
en grain : 
But who shall teach us when to look foi 
thee.? 



Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the voilets 
lie.' 

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale.' — 
They have one aeason—dll are ours to die! 

Thou art where billows foam. 
Thou art where music melts upon the air; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls forth — and thou art 
there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, — 
Thou art where foe meets foe, and 
trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the prince- 
ly crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's 
breath, 
And stars to set — but all. 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O 
Death ! 

Felicia Hemans. 



SOLILOQUY OF KING RICHARD II. 

THE MORNING BEFORE HIS MURDER IN PONTE- 
FKACT CASTLE. 

Whether the soul receives intelligence. 
By her near genuis, of the body's end, 
And so imparts a sadness to the sense, 
Foregoing ruin whereto it doth tend : 
Or whether nature else hath conference 
With profound sleep, and so doth warning 

send, 
By prophetising dreams, what hurt is near, 
And gives the heavy careful heart to fear: 

However, so it is, the now sad king, . 
Tossed here and there his quiet to con- 
found. 



248 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Feels a strange weight of sorrows gather- 
ing 

Upon his trembling heart, and sees no 
ground ; 

Feels sudden terror bring cold shivering; 

Lists not to eat, still muses, sleeps an- 
sound; 

His'senses droop, his steady eyes unquick. 

And much he ails, and yet he is not sick. 



The morning of that day which was his 

last. 
After a weary rest, rising to pain, 
Out at a little grate his eyes he cast 
Upon those bordering hills and open plain, 
Where others' liberty make him complain 
The more his own, and grieves his soul the 

more, 
Conferring captive crowns with freedom 
* poor. 

" O happy man," saith he, " that lo I see. 
Grazing his cattle in those pleasant fields. 
If he but knew his good. How blessed he 
That feels not what affliction greatness 

yields! 
Other than what he is he would not be. 
Nor change his state with him that sceptre 

weilds 
Thine, thine is that true life: that is to 

live. 
To rest secure, and not rise up to grieve. 



" Thou sitt'st at home safe by thy quiet fire, 

And hear'st of other's harms, but fearest 
none: 

And there thou tell'st of kings, and who 
aspire, 

Whb fall, who rise, who triumph, who do 
moan. 

Perhaps thou talk'st of me, and dost in- 
quire 

Of my restraint, why here I live alone. 

And pitiest this my miserable fall; 

For pity must have part — envy not all. 



"Thrice happy you that look as from the 

shore, 
And have no venture in the wreck you see; 

No interest, no occasion to deplore 
Others men's travels, while yourselves sit 

tree. 
How much doth your sweet rest make us 

the more 
To see our misery, and what we be: 
Whose blinded greatness, ever in turinoil, 
Still seeking happy life, makes life a toil." 

Samuel Daniel. 



THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.— 
Matthew vi. 28, 

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 

Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew, 
What more than magic in you lies. 

To fill the heart's fond view.? 
In childhood's sports, companions gay, 
In sorrow, on life's downward way, 
How soothing! in our last decay 
Memorials prompt and true. 

Relics are ye of Eden's bowers. 
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 

As when ye crovvn'd the sunshine hours 
Of happy wanderers there. 

Fall'n all beside — the world of life, 

How is it stain'd with fear and strife! 

In Reason's world what storms are rife, 
What passions range and glare! 

But cheerful and unchang'd the while 

Your first and perfect form ye show, 
The same that won Eve's matron smile 

In the world's opening glow. 
The stars of heaven a course are taught 
Too high above our human thought; — 
Ye may be found if ye are sought, 
And as we gaze, we know. 

John Klble. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



249 



WHEN. 


On which my lite was writ, and I with 




wonder 


If I were told that I must die to-morrow, 


Beheld unroll 


That the next sun 


To a long century's end its mystic clue, 


Which sinks should bear me past all fear 


What should I do? 


and sorrow 




For any one, 




All the fight fought, all the short journey 


What could I do, O blessed Guide and Mas- 


through, 


ter, 


What should I do? 


Other than this ; 




Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, 




Nor fear to miss 


I do not think that I should shrink or fal- 




ter, 


The road, although so very long it be, 


While led by Thee? 


But just go on. 




Doing my work, nor change nor seek to al- 




ter 




Aught that is gone; 


Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, 


But rise and move and love and smile and 


Although unseen. 


pray 


Through thorns, through flowers, whether 


For one more day. 


the tempest hide Thee, 




Or heavens serene. 




Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray, 


And, laying down at night for a last sleep- 


Thy love decay. 


ing? 

Say in that ear 




Which liearkens ever: "Lord, within thy 


I may not know; my God, no hand reveal- 


keeping 


eth 


How should I fear? 


Thy counsels wise; 




And when to-morrow brings thee nearer 


Along the path a deepening shadow steal- 


still. 


eth. 


Do thou thy will." 


No voice replies 




To all my questioning thought, the time to 


I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, 


tell; 

And it is well. 


tender, 




My soul would lie 




All the night long; and when the morning 




splendor 


Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing 


Flushed o'er the sky, 


Thy will always, 


I think that I could smile — could calmly 


Through a long century's ripening fruition 


say. 


Or a short day's: 


" It is his ilay." 


Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can 




wait 




If Thou come late. 


But if a wondrous hand from the blue yon- 




der 




Held out a scroll, 


Slsan Coolidge. 



250 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE VAGABONDS. 

We are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger's m j dog ; — come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye ! 

Over the table — look out for the lamp! — 
The rogue is growing a little old ; 

Five years we've tramped through wind 
and weather, 
And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 

And ate and drank, and starved together. 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow ! 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 

(This out-door business is bad for the 
strings). 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the 
griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kirlgs! 

No thank ye, sir, — I never drink ; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — 
Are n't we Roger? — see him wink! — 

Well, something hot, then, — we won't 
quarrel. 
He's thirsty too, — see him nod his head? 

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
He understands every woi-d that's said, — 

And he knows good milk from water and 
chalk. 

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you sir!) even of my dog. 
But he sticks by through thick and thin ; 

And this old coat, with its empty pockets. 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his 
sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 

Would do it, and prove through every 
disaster, 



So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 
To such a miserable, thankless master! 

No, sir! — see him wag his tail and grin! 
By George, it makes my old eyes water! 

That is, there's something in this gin 
That chokes a fellow. But no matter! 

We'll have some music, if you're willing, 
And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough 
is sir!) 
Shall march a little. Start, you villain ! 
Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your 
officer ! 
Put up that paw ! Dress! Take 3'our rifle! 
(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now 
hold your 
Cap, while the gentlemen give a trifle. 
To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel 
shakes 
When he stands up to hear his sentence. 
Now tell us how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly, new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, — that's five ; he's mighty know- 
ing! 
The night's before us, fill the glasses! — 
Quick, sir! I'm ill, — my brain is going! 
Some brandy, — thank you, — there! — it 
passes. 

Why not reform ! That's easily said, 

But I've gone through such wretched 
treatment. 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
And scarce remembering what meat 
meant. 
That my poor stomach's past reform; 
And there are times Avhen, mad with 
thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm, 
To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think? 

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love ; — but I took to drink, — 

The same old story, — you know how it 
ends. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



2.-,l 



If you could have seen these classic features, 
You needn't laugh, sir; they were not 
then 

Such a burning libel on God's creatures; 
I was one of your handsome men! 

If you had seen her, so fair and voung. 

Whose head was happy on this breast! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't 
have guessed 
That ever I, sir, should be straying 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night, for a glass of grog! 

She's married since, — a parson's wife ; 

'Twas better for her that we should part. 
Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her! Once! I was weak and 
spent 

On the dusty road. A carriage stopped; 
But little she dreamed, as on she went. ' 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers 
dropped ! 

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry — 

It makes me wild to think of the change! 
What do you care for a beggar's story.? 

Is it amusing } you find it strange } 
I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before — do you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below.' 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 

This pam, then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden. 

Aching thing in place of a heart.? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he 
could. 

No doubt, remembering things that were, 
A virtuous kennel, with plentv of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 

I'm better now: that glass was warming. 
You rascal! limber your lazy feet! 



We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think } 
But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
free. 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
drink : — 
The sooner the better for Roger and me! 

J. T. Trov'bridge. 



THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED. 

I du believe in Freedom's cause, 

Ez far awav ez Payris is ; 
I love to see her stick her claws 

In them infarnal Pharyisees; 
It's wal enough agin a King 

To drop resolves and triggers, — 
But libbaty's a kind o' thing 

Thet don't agree with niggers. 

I du believe the people want 

A tax on teas and coftees, 
Thet nothin' aint extravygunt, — 

Providin', I'm in office; 
For I hev loved my country sence 

My eye-teeth filled their sockets, 
And Uncle Sam I reverence, 

Partic'larly his pockets. 

I du believe in any plan 

O' levyin' the taxes, 
Ez long ez like a lumberman, 

I get just wat I axes. 
I go free-trade through thick and thin, 

Because it kind o' rouses 
The folks to vote — and keep us in 

Our quiet custom houses. 

I du believe it's wise and good 
To sen' out furrin missions, 

Thet is, on sartan' understood, 
An' orthydox conditions; 

I mean nine thousan' dol. per ann., 
Nine thousan' more fer outfit, — 



252 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



An, ine to recommend the man 
The place 'ould jest about fit. 

I du believe in special ways 

O' prayin' and convartin'; 
The bread comes back in many ways 

An' buttered too for sartin' ; 
I mean in preyin' till one busts 

On wut the party chooses, 
An' in convartin public trusts 

To very private uses. 

I du believe hard coin the stuff 

For 'lectioneers to spout on ; 
The people's oilers soft enough 

To mals e hard money out on ; 
Dear Uncle Sam pervides for his, 

And gives a good sized junk to all; 
I don't care hoiv hard money is 

Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal. 

I do believe with all my soul 

In the great Press's freedom, 
To point the people tq the goal 

An' in the races lead 'em ; 
Palsied the arm that forges yokes 

At my fat contracts squintin', 
And withered be the nose that pokes 

Inter thegov'ment printin'. 

I du believe that I should give 

What's his'n unto Csesar, 
For it's by him I move and live. 

From him my bread and cheese air. 
I du believe that all o' me 

Doth bear his superscription, — 
Will, conscience, honor, honesty 

An' things o' thet description. 

I du believe in prayer and praise 

To him that hez the grantin' 
O' jobs, — in every thin' that pays, 

But most of all in Cantin; 
This doth my cup with marcies fill, 

This lays all thought o' sin to rest,— 
I don''t believe in princerple, 

But O, I du in interest. 



I du believe in bein' this 

Or thet, ez it may happen 
One way or t'other hendiest is 

To ketch the people nappin'; 
It aint by princerpels or men. 

My preudunt course is steadied — 
I scent which pays the best, and then 

Go into it bald-headed. 

I du believe thet holdin' slaves 

Gome's natural to a President, 
Let 'lone the row-de-dow it saves 

To have a wal broke precedent; 
For any office, small or great 

I couldn't ax with no face. 
Without I'd been throu' dry ana wet 

The unrizziest kind o' doughface. 

I du believe whatever trash, 

'11 keep the people in blindness-- 
That we the Mexicans can thrash 

Right inter brotherly kindness ; 
Thet bombshells, grape, an powder an' ball 

Air good-will's strongest magnets, 
That peace, to make it stick at all 

Must be druv in by bagnets, " 

In short, I firmly du believe 

In humbug generally. 
For it's a thing that I perceive 

To have a solid vally ; 
This heth my faithful shepherd ben, 

In pastures sweet hath led me. 
An' this'll keep the people green 

To feed as they hev fed me. 

James Russell Lowell. 



AFTER ALL— 1862. 

The apples are ripe in the orchard. 
The work of the reaper is done, 

And the golden woodlands redden 
In the blood of the dying sun. 



OF POETRT 


AND SONG. 


','53 


At the cottage door the grandsire 


Under the sod and the dew. 




Sits, pale, in his easy chair ; 


Waiting the judgment day; 




While a gentle wind of twiliirht 


Under the one the Blue; 




Plays with his silver hair. 


Under the other the Gray. 




A \voman is kneeling beside him; 


These in the robings of glory. 




A fair young head is prest, 


These in the gloom of defeat. 




In the first wild passion of sorrow, 


All with the battle-blood gory, 




Against his aged breast. 


In the dusk of eternity meet. 
Under the sod and the dew, 




And far from over the distance, 
The faltering echoes come — 


Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 




Of the flying blast of trumpet, 


Under the willow, the Gray. 




And the rattling roll of drum. 






Then the grandsire speaks in a whisper, — 


From the silence of sorrowful hours, 
The desolate mourners go, 




"The end no man can see; 


Lovingly, laden with flowers 




But we give him to his country, 


Alike for the friend and the foe. 




And we give our prayers to Thee." 


Under the sod and the dew, 




The violets star the meadows. 

The rose-buds fringe the door. 
And over the grassy orchard, 


Waiting the judgment day; 
Under the roses, the Blue, 
Under the lilies, the Gray. 




The pink-white blossoms pour. 


So with an equal splendor 




But the grandsire's chair is empty, 

The cottage is dark and still. 
There's a nameless grave on the battle- 


The morning sun-rays fall. 
With a touch impartially tender 
On the blossoms blooming for all. 
Under the sod and the dew. 




field, 
And a new one under the liill. 


Waiting the judgment day; 
'Broidered with gold, the Blue, 




And a pallid, tearless woman. 


Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 




By the cold hearth sits alone; 


So, when the summer calleth. 




And the old clock in the corner 


On forest and field of grain. 




Ticks on with a steady drone. 


With an equal murmur falleth 




William Winter. 


The cooling drip of the rain. 
Under the sod and the dew. 
Waiting the judgment day; 






THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 


Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 




[The women of Columbus, Mississippi, strewed 
flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and 
the National soldiers. J 


Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 

The generous deed was done; 
In the storm of the years that are fad 


ng» 


By the flow of the inland river, 


No braver battle was won. 




When the fleets of iron have fled. 


Under tiie sod and the dew, 




Where the blades oi the grave-grass 


Waiting the judgment day; 




quiver. 


Under the blossoms, the Blue, 




Asleep are the ranks of the dead ; 


Under tha garlands, the Gray. 





254 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



No more shall the war-cry sever, 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever, 

When they laurel the graves of our 
dead ! 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day; 
Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gra^-. 

F. M. Finch. 



LITTLE BREECHES. 

I don't go much on religion, 

I never ain't had no show; 
Bui I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, 

On the liandful o' things I know. 
I don't pan out on the prophets 

And free-will, and that sort o' thing, — 
But I b'lieve in God and the angels, 

Ever sence one night last spring. 

I come into town with some turnips, 

And my little Gabe came along. 
No four year old in the country 

Could beat him for pretty and strong ; 
Peart, and chipper, and sassy. 

Always ready to swear and fight. 
And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker, 

Just to keep his milk-teeth white. 

The snow came down like a blanket, 

As I passed by Taggart's store; 
I went in for a jug of molasses, 

And left Ihe team at the door. 
They scared at something and started, — 

I heard one little squall. 
And hell-to-split over the prairie 

Went team, Little Breeches and all. 

Hell-to-spHt over the prairie 
I was almost froze with skeer. 

But we rousted up some torches. 
And sarched for em far and near. 



At last we struck bosses and wagon, 
Snowed under a soft, white mound, 

Upsot, dead beat, — but of little Gabe, 
No hide nor hair was found. 

And here all hope soured on me, 

Of my fellow-critters aid, — 
I iust flopped down on my marrow-bones 

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. 



By this, the^torches was played out. 

And me and Israel Parr, 
Went oft' for some wood to a sheepfold, 

That he said was somewhar thar. 

We found it at last, and a little shed 

Where they shut up the lambs at night, 
We looked in and seen them huddled thar 

So warm and sleepy and white ; 
And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped 

As peart as ever you see, 
" I want a chaw of terbacker. 

And that's what the matter of me." 

How did he git ///ar/* Angels! 

He could never have walked in that 
storm! 
They just scooped down and toted him 

To whar it was safe and warm ! 
And I think that saving a little child, 

And bringing him to his own. 
Is a derned sight better business 

Than loafing around a throne ! 



John Hay. 



OLD FOLKS. 

Ah, dont be sorrowful, darling, 
And don't be sorrowful, pray ; 

Taking the year all round, my dear, 
There is'nt more night than day. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



255 



'Tis rainy weather, my darling, 
Time's waves, they heavily run; 

But taking the year together, my dear, 
There isn't more rain than sun. 

We are old folks now, my darling. 
Our heads are growing grey ; 

But, taking the year all round, my dear, 
You will always find the May. 

We have had our May, my darling, 

And our roses, long ago; 
And the time of the year is coming my 
dear. 

For the silent night and the snow. 

And God is God, my darling, 

Of night as well as of day; 
We feel and know that we can go, 

Wherever he leads the way. 

Ah, God of the night, my darling, 
Of the night of death so grim ; 

The gate that leads out of life, good wife, 
Is the gate that leads to Him. 

Anonymous. 



THE BOYS. 

This selection is ;i poem addressed to the class 
of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after 
their graduation. The author, who retains in a high 
degree the freshness and joyousness of youth, ad- 
dresses his classmates as " boys." 

Has there any old fellow got mixed with 
the boys.'' 

If there has, take him out, without mak- 
ing a noise. 

Hang the almanac's cheat and the cata- 
logue's spite! 

Old Time is a liar! we're twenty to-night! 

We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says we 

are more.' 
He's tipsy, — young jackanapes! — show him 

the door! 



"Gray temples at twenty.?" — Yes! "wMte 

if we please; 
Where the snow flakes fall thickest there's 

nothing can freeze! 

Was it snowing I spoke of.' Exctise the 

the mistake! 
Look close, — you will see not a sign of a 

flake! 
We want some new garlands for those we 

have shed. 
And these are white roses in place of the 

red. 

We've a trick, we young fellow-s, you may 

have been told, 
Of talking (in public) as if we were old; 
That boy we call "Doctor," and this we 

call "Judge;" 
It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all 

fudge. 

That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on 

the right; 
" Mr. Mayor, " my young one, how are you 

to night.' 
That's our " Member of Congress, '" we say 

Avhen we chaff; 
There's the " Reverend " — what's his name.' 

— don't make me laugh. 

That boy with the grave matheinatical look 
Made believe he had written a wonderful 

book. 
And the Royal Society thought it was irne! 
So they chose him right in, — a good joke 

it was too! 

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three- 
decker brain. 

That could harness a team with a logical 
chain ; 

When he spoke for our manhood in sylla- 
bled fire. 

We called him " The Justice," but now he's 
the " Squire." 



256 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And there's a nice youngster of excellent 

pith; 
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him 

Smith; 
But he shouted a song for the brave and 

the free, — 
Just read on his medal, " M j Country," 

"of thee!" 

You hear that boy laughing? You think 

he's all fun; 
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he 

has done ; 
The children laugh loud as they troop to 

his call. 
And the poor man that knows him laughs 

loudest of all! 

Yes we're boys, — always playing with 

tongue or with pen ; 
And I sometimes have asked. Shall we 

ever be men? 
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, 

and gay, 
Till the last dear companion drops smiling 

away ? 

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and 
its gray ! 

The stars of its Winter, the dews of its 
May! 

And when we have done with our life-last- 
ing toys, 

Dear Father, take care of thy children. 
The Boys! 

O. W. Holmes. 



TO MILTON. 

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed 
away 
From these white cliffs, and high-em- 
battled towers; 
This gorgeous, fiery-colored world of ours 
Seems fallen into ashes dull and gray, 



And the age changed into a mimic plav 
Wherein we waste our else too-crowded 

hours : 
For all our pomp and pageantry and 
powers 
We are but fit to delve the common clay. 
Seeing this little isle on which we stand. 
This England, this sea-lion of the sea. 
By ignorant demagogues is held in fee. 
Who love her not: Dear God! is this the 
land 
Which bare a triple empire in her hand 
When Cromwell spake the word De- 
mocracy. 

Oscar Wilde. 



THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 

They've got a brand new organ, Sue, 

For all their fuss and search ; 
They've done just as they said they'd do, 

And fetched it into church. 
They're bound the critter shall be seen, 

And on the preacher's right. 
They've hoisted up their new machine 

In everybody's sight. 
They've got a chorister and choir, 

Ag'in my voice and vote; 
For it was never my desire 

To praise the Lord by note! 

I've been a sister good an' true, 

For five-an'-thirty year; 
I've done what seemed my part to do, 

An' prayed my duty clear; 
I've sung the hymns both slow and quick. 

Just as the preacher read ; 
And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, 

I took the fork an' led ! 
And now, their bold, new-fangled ways, 

Is comin' all about; 
And I, right in my latter days, 

Am fairly crowded out ! 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



257 



To-day, the preacher, good old dear, 

With tears all in his eves. 
Read — " I can read my title clear 

To mansions in the skies." — 
I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — 

I s'pose I al'ays will; 
It somehow gratifies my whim, 

In good old Ortonville; 
But when that choir got up to sing, 

I couldn't catch a word ; 
They sung the most dog-gonedest thing 

A body ever heard! 

Some worldly chaps was standin' near. 

An' when I seed them grin, 
I bid farewell to every fear, 

And boldly waded in. 
I thought I'd chase their tune along, 

And tried with all my might; 
But, though mj voice is good an' strong 

I couldn't steer it right; 
When they was high, then I was low. 

An' also contra'wise; 
And I too fast, or they too slow, 

To " mansions in the skies." 

An' after every verse, you know 

They played a little tune; 
I didn't understand, an' so 

I started in too soon. 
I pitched it pritty middlin' high, 

I fetched a lusty tone. 
But oh, alas ! I found that I 

Was singing there alone! 
They laughed a little, I am told; 

But I had done my best. 
And not a wave of trouble rolled 

Across my peaceful breast. 

And sister Brc^vn — I could but look — 

She sits right front of me ; 
She never was no singin' book, 

An never meant to be; 
But then she al'ays tried to do 

The best she could, she said; 
She understood the time right through, 

An' kep' it, with her head. 



But when she tried this mornin', oh, 
I had to laugh, or cough — 

It kep' her head a bobbin' so. 
It e'en a'most came off ! 



An' Deacon Tubbs — he all broke down. 

As one might well suppose, 
He took one look at sister Brown, 

And meekly scratched his nose. 
He looked his hymn book through and 
through. 

And laid it on the seat, 
And then a pensive sigh he drew. 

And looked completely beat. 
An' when they took another bout 

He didn't even rise. 
But drawed his red bandanner out. 

An' wiped his weepin' eyes. 

I've been a sister, good an' true. 

For five an' thirty year; 
I've done what seemed my part to do. 

An' prayed my duty clear; 
But death will stop my voice, I know, 

For he is on my track ; 
And some day I to church wi'l go. 

And never more come back. 
And when the folks get up to sing — 

Whene'er that time shall be — 
I do not want no patent thing 

A squealin' over me! 

Will M. Carleton. 



BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in 

Algiers, 
There was lack of woman's nursing, there 

was dearth of woman's tears ; 
But a comrade stood beside him, while his 

life-blood ebbed away, 
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 

what he might say. 



2T>S 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Tlie dying soldier faltered, and he took that 
comrade's hand, 

And he said, " I nevermore shall see my 
own, my native land ; 

Take a message, and a token, to some dis- 
tant friends of mine. 

For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on 
the Rhine. 

"Tell my brothers and companions, when 
they meet and crowd around. 

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant 
vineyard ground, 

That we fought the battle bra^■ely, and 
when the day was done. 

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath 
the setting sun ; 

And mid the dead and dying, were some 
grown old in wars, — 

The death- wound on their gallant breasts, 
the last of many scars; 

And some were young, and suddenly be- 
held life's morn decline. 

And one had come from Bingen, — fair 
Bingen on the Rhine. 

"Tell my mother that her other son shall 

comfort her old age; 
For I was still a truant bird that thought 

his home a cage ; 
For my father was a soldier, and even as a 

child, 
^ly heart leaped forth to hear him tell of 

struggles fierce and wild ; 
And when he died, and left us to divide his 

scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would ; but 

kept my father's sword; 
And with boyish love I hung it where the 

bright light used to shine. 
On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bin- 
gen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob 

with drooping head. 
When the ti-oops come marching home 

again with glad and gallant tread, 
But to look upon them proudly with a calm 

and steadfast eye. 



For her brother was a soldier too, and not 

afraid to die; 
And it a comrade seek her love, I ask her 

in my name, 
To listen to him kindly, without regret or 

shame. 
And to hang the old sword in its place, (my 

father's sword and mine,) 
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen 

on the Rhine. 

"There's another — not a sister; in the 

happy days gone by 
You'd have known her by the merriment 

that sparkled in her eye; 
Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for 

idle scorning, — 

friend, I fear the lightest heart makes 

sometimes heaviest mourning ! 
Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere 

the moon be risen, 
Mj' body will be out of pain, my soul be out 

of prison), 

1 dreamed I stood with he}\ and saw the 

yellow sunlight shine 
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bin- 
gen on the Rhine. 

" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I 

heard, or seemed to hear 
The German songs we used to sing, in 

chorus sweet and clear ; 
And down the pleasant river, and up the 

slanting hill. 
The echoing chorus sounded, through the 

evening calm and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we 

passed, with friendly talk, 
Down many a path beloved of yore, and 

well-remembered walk ! 
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly 

in mine. 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen, — loved 

Bingen on the Rhine." 

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse 
his grasp was childish, weak, — 

His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed 
and ceased to speak. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



259 



His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark 

of life had fled — 
The soldier of the legion in a foreign land 

is dead ! 
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and 

calmly she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field, with 

bloody corses strewn; 
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale 

light seemed to shine, 
As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bino^en 

on the Rhine, 

Caroline E. Norton. 



BETS\ AND I ARE OUT. 

Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em 

good and stout, 
For things at home are cross-ways, and 

Betsy and I are out; 
We who have worked together so long as 

man and wife 
Must pull in single harness the rest of our 

nat'ral life. 

"What is the matter," says you? I swan! 

it's hard to tell ! 
Most of the years behind us we've passed 

by very well ; 
I have no other woman — she has no other 

man — 
Only we've lived together as long as ever 

we can. 

So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsv has 

talked with me; 
And we've agreed together that we can 

never agree. 
Not that we've catched each other in anv 

terrible crime ; 
We've been a galherin' this for years, a 

little at a time. 

There was a stock of temper -we both had, 

for a start ; 
Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take 

us two apart; 



I had my various failings, bred in the flesh 

and bone. 
And Betsy, like all good women, had a 

temper of her own. 

The first thing, I remember, whereon we 
disagreed, 

Was somethin' concerning heaven a dif- 
ference in our creed ; 

We arg'ed the thing at breakfast, we arg'ed 
the thing at tea, 

And the more we arg'ed the question, the 
more we couldn't agree. 

And the next that I remember was when 

we lost a cow; 
She had kicked the bucket for certain, the 

question was only how? 
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had, 
And when we had done a talkin', we both 

of us were mad. 

And the next that I remember, it started 

in a joke; 
And for full a week it lasted and neither of 

us spoke. 
And the next was when I fretted because 

she broke a bowl ; 
And she said I was mean and stingy, and 

hadn't any soul. 

And so the thing kept workin', and all the 

self-same way, 
Always something to arg'e and something 

sharp to sav. 
And down on us came the neighbors, a 

couple of hundred strong. 
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the 

thing along. 

And there have been days together, and 

many a weary week. 
When both of us were cross and spunky ; 

and both too proud to speak ; 
And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the 

whole of the summer and fall, 
If I can't live kind with a woman, why, 

then I won't at all. 



260 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy 

has talked with me; 
And we have agreed together that we can 

never agree; 
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is 

mine shall be mine ; 
And I'll put it in the agreement and take it 

to her to sign. 

Write on the paper, lawyer, the very first 

paragraph — 
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall 

have her half; 
For she has helped to earn it, through 

many a weary day. 
And its nothin more than justice that Betsy 

has her pay. 

Give her the house and homestead, a man 

can thrive and roam. 
But women are wretclied critters, unless 

they have a home ; 
And I have always determined, and never 

failed to say, 
That Betsy should never want a home, if I 

was taken away. 

There's a little hard money besides, that's 

drawin' tol'rable pay, 
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a 

rainy day. 
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to 

get at; 
Put in another clause there, and give her 

all of that. 

I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' 
her so much; 

Yes, divorce is clieap, sir, but I take no 
stock in such ; 

True and fair I married her, when she was 
blithe and young. 

And Betsy was always good to me, except- 
ing with her tongue. 

When I was young as you sir, and not so 

smart, perhaps. 
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several 

other chaps, 



And all of em was flustered, and fairly 

taken down. 
And for a time I was counted the luckiest 

man in town. 

Once, when I had a fever, I won't forget it 

soon — 
I was hot as a basted turkey, and crazy as a 

loon — 
Never an hour went by me when she was 

out of sight; 
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck 

to me day and night. 

And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a 

kitchen clean. 
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I 

ever seen. 
And I don't complain of Betsy or any of 

her acts, 
Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told 

each other facts. 

So draw up the paper, lawyer, and I'll go 

home to-night. 
And read the agreement to her and see if 

it's all right; 
And then in the mornin' I'll sell to a trad- 

in' man I know — 
And kiss the child that was left to us, and 

out in the world I'll go. 

And one thing put in the paper, that first to 

me didn't occur ; 
That when I am dead at last she will bring 

me back to her. 
And lay me under the maple we planted 

years ago. 
When she and I was happy, before we 

quarreled so. 

And when she dies, I wish that she would 

be laid by me; 
And Ivin' together in silence, perhaps we'll 

then agree; 
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't 

think it queer 
If we loved each other the better because 

we've quarreled here. 

Will M. Carleton. 

















- 






OF POETR7 


- AND SONG. 261 






THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. 


" Work — work — work 

Till the brain begins to swim' 








Sleep! — The ghostly winds are blowing! 
No moon abroad — no star is glowing; 
The river is deep, and the tide is flowing 
To the land where you and I are going! 

We are going afar, 

Beyond moon or star, 


Work — work — work 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
Seam, and gusset, and band. 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream! 








To the land where the sinless angels are ! 


" O men, with sisters dear ! 

O men, with mothers and wives! 








I lost my heart to your heartless sire. 


It is not linen you're wearing out. 








('T was melted a^vay by his looks of fire) — 


But human creature's lives! 








Forgot my God, and my father's ire. 


Stitch— stitch— stitch, 








All for the sake of a man's desire; 


In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 








But now we '11 go 


Sewing at once, with a double thread, 








Where the waters flow, 


A shroud as well as a shirt! 








And make us a bed where none shall 










know. 


" But why do I talk of death— 
That phantom of grisly bone.'' 








The world is cruel — the world is untrue; 


I hardly fear his terrible shape, 








Our foes are many, our friends are few; 


It seems so like my own — 








Xo \\ork, no bread, however we sue! 


It seems so like my own 






What is there left for me to do. 


Becau?(e of the fasts I keep ; 








But fly— fly 


O God ! that bread should be so dear, 








From the cruel skv. 


And flesh and blood so cheap! 








And hide in the deepest deeps — and die! 










Barry Cornwall. 


" Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags-. 
And what are its wages.' A bed of straw 

A crust of bread — and rags, 
That shattered roof— and this naked floor — 
















THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 


A table — a broken chair — 
And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 








With fingers weary and worn. 


For sometimes falling there! 








With eyelids heavy and red. 










A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 


" Work — work — work ! 








Plying her needle and thread — 


From weary chime to chime! 








Stitch! stitch! stitch! 


Work — work — work — 








In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 


As prisoners work for crime ! 








And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 


Band, and gusset, and seam, 








She sang the " Song of the Shirt! " 


Seam, and gusset, and band — 
Till the heart is sick and the brain be- 








" Work ! work ! work ! 


numbed. 








While the cock is crowing aloof ! 


As well as the weary hand. 








And work — work — work, 










Till the stars shine through the roof! 


" Work — work — work 








It 's oh! to be a slave 


In the dull December light! 








Along with the barbarous Turk, 


And work — work — work. 








Where woman has never a soul to save, 


When the weather is warm and bright !- 








If this is Christian work! 


While underneath the eaves 

























1 

362 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK \ 

\ ! 


The brooding swallows cling, 


I could have sworn 't was siher flowing. i 


As if to show me their sunnv backs, 


Her words were three, and not one more. 


I And twit me with the Spring. 


What could Diana's motto be.' 


i 

»' Oh ! but to breathe the breath 


The siren wrote upon the shore, — 
" Death, not inconstancy." 


Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 




With the skv above my head. 
And the grass beneath my feet! 


And then her two large languid eyes 
So turned on mine that, devil take me. 


For only one short hour 
To feel as 1 used to feel, 

Before I knew the woes of want 
And the walk that costs a meal ! 


I set the air on fire with sighs. 

And was the fool she chose to make me! 
Saint Francis would have been deceived 

With such an eye and such a hand; 


" Oh ! but for one short hour — 
A respite however brief ! 


But one week more, and I believed 
As much the woman as the sand. 


No blessed leisure for love or hope, 


— Anonymous. 


But only time for grief! 




A little weeping would ease my heart; 
But in their briny bed 






My tears must stop, for every drop 




Hinders needle and thread! " 


EXCELSIOR. 


With fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 


The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 


A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 


A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 


Plying her needle and thread — 


A banner with the strange device — 


Stitch! stitch! stitch! 


Excelsior! 


In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich! — 

She sang this "Song of the Shirt! " 
Thomas Hood. 


His brow was sad; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue — 
E.xcelsior! 




In happy homes he saw the light 






Of household fires gleam warm and bright > 


CONSTANCY. 


Above, the spectral glaciers shone. 
And from his lips escaped a groan — 


One e^e of beauty, when the suk 


Excelsior! 


Was on the stream of Guadalquiver, 




To gold converting one by one. 


"Try not the pass," the old man said: 


The ripples of the mighty river. 


" Dark lowers the tempest overhead; 


Beside me on the bank was seated 


The roaring torrent is deep and wide! " 


A Seville girl, with auburn hair 


And loud that clarion \oice replied. 


And eyes that might the world have 


Excelsior! 


cheated, — 




A wild bright, wicked, diamond pair! 


" Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest 




Thy weary head upon this breast! " 


She stooped and wrote upon the sand. 


A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 


Just as the loving sun was going. 


But still he answered, with a sigh, 


j With such a soft, small, shining hand, 


Excelsior! 




CONSIANCi 



OF poETRr A XI) so.y(;. 



2()5 



"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! 
Beware the awful avalanche! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night: 
A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried, through the startled air, 
Ex'celsior! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound. 
Half-buried in the snow was found. 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

There in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay. 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star — 
Excelsior! 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



THANATOPSIS. 

To him who in the love of nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 

speaks 
A various language; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing s\mpathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 

thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow- 
house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 

heart — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To nature's teachings, while from all 

around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths 
of air — 



Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold 

ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid with many 

tears. 
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee. 

shall claim 
Thy growth to be resolved to earth again; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering- 

up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix for ever with the elements — 
To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
And to the sluggish clod which the rude 

swain 
Turns with his snare, and treads upon. The 

oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 

mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou 

wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 

down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with 

kings. 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the 

good — 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the 

vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between — 
The \enerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured 

round all, 
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Tiirough the still lapse of ages. All that 

tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom — Take the 

winsis 



266 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 

sound 
Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are 

there ; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them 

down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there 

alone. 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou with- 
draw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that 

breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay wiW laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 

care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 

leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and 

shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the 

long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he 

who goes 
In the full strength of years — matron, and 

maid. 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed 

man, — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side 
By those, who in their turn shall follow 

them. 



So live, that when thy summons comes 

to join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall 

take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained 

and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy 

grave 



Like one who wraps the drapery of his 

couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant 

dreams. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF 
JOHN GILPIN, 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN 

HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE 

HOME AGAIN. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown ; 
A trainband captain eke was he, 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear— 
" Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

"To-morrow is our wedding day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton 

All in a chaise and pair. 

" My sister, and my sister's child. 

Myself and children three, 
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, " I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And yon are she, my dearest dear ; 

Therefore it shall be done. 

" I am a linendrapcr bold. 

As all the world doth know; 
And my good friend, the calender, 
Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

And, for that wine is dear. 
We will be furnished w'ith our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



267 



John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; 

(^'erjoyed was he to find 
That, though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But vet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors oft" the chaise was stayed 

Where they did all get in — 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the 
wheels — 

Were never folks so glad ; 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane, 
And up he got, in haste to ride — 

But soon came down again : 

For saddletree scarce reached had he. 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came : for loss of time. 
Although it grieved him sore, 

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
Would trouble him much more. 

'T was long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind ; 
Wlien Betty, screaming, came do^\n stairs — 

"The wine is left behind! " 

"Good lack!" quoth he — "yet bring it me 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I bear my trusty sword 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she lo\ ed. 

And keep it safe and sound. 



Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side, 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe. 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat. 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a sinoother road 

Beneath his well shod feet, 
The snorting beast began to trot. 

Which galled him in his seat. 

So„ " Fair and softly," John he cried. 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop s®on. 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright. 
He grasped the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his migh"^ 

His horse, ^\ .10 never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 

Away went hat and wig ; 
He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow — the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay ; 
Till, loop and button failing both. 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung — 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or simg. 



268 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



The Clogs did bark, the children screamed, 

Up flew the windows all; 
And every soul cried out, " Well done! " 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin — who but he? 

His fame soon spead around — 
" He carries weight! he rides a race! 

'T is for a thousand pound ! " 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

'T was wonderful to view 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back, 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen, 
Which made his horse"'s flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seemed to carry weight. 

With leathern girdle braced; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols did he play. 
Until he caiac unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton SO gay : 

And tiiere he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Ju-^t like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

" Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! here 's the house 

They all at once did cry ; 
" The dinner waits, and we are tired : " 

Said Gilpin — " So am I ! " 



But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why.' — his owner had a house 

Full ten miles oft', at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong; 
So did he fly — which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath. 

And sore against his will. 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him: 

"What news.' what news.' your tidings tell; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all.' " 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke; 
And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke: 

" I came because your horse would come; 

And, if I well forbode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here. 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin. 
Returned him not a single word, 

But to the house went in; 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear — 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit — 
" My head is twice as big as yours , 

They therefore needs must fit 



I 



OF POETRV AND 



SONG. 
\ 



" But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon jour face; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case." 

Said John, "It is my wedding day, 
And all the world would stare 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
And I should dine at Ware." 

So turning to his horse, he said 

" 1 am in haste to dine; 
'T was for your pleasure you came here — 

"\'ou shall go back for mine." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, 

For wiiich he paid full dear! 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 

Did sing most loud and clear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And galloped ofl' with all his might. 

As he had done before. 

Awav went Gilpin, and away 

Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 
He lost them sooner than at first, 

For whv.' — the\' were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far awav. 

She pulled out half a crown; 

And thus unto the youth she said. 

That drove them to the Bell, 
"This shall be yours when vou bring back 

My husband safe and well." 

The \outh did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain — 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 

By catching at his rein ; 

But not performing what he meant, 

And gladly would have done. 
The friglitod steed he frighted inore, 

And made him faster run. 



Away went Gilpin, and awav 

Went post-boy at his heels. 
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road. 

Thus seeing Gilpin flv, 
With post-boy scampering in the rear. 

They raised the hue and crv : 

"Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwavman!' 

Not one of them was mute; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space; 
The toll-men thinking as before. 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too. 

For he got first to town ; 
Nor stopped till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long li\e the king! 

And Gilpin, long live he; 
And when he next doth ride abroad. 

May I be there to see ! 

WlLLl.XiM COWPER. 



THE MOURNER. 

Yes! there are real mourners, — I have seen 
A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene ; 
Attention (through the day) her duties 

claimed. 
And to be useful as resigned she aimed, 
Neatly shedrest, nor vainly seemed f expect 
Pity for grief or pardon for neglect; 
But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep. 
She sought her place to meditate and weep; 
Then to her mind was all the past displayed, 
That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid : 
For then she thought on one regretted 

%outh. 
Her tender trust, and his unquestioned 

truth; 



270 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



In everv place she wandered where they 'd 

been, 
And sadlv-sacred held the parting scene, 
Where last for sea he took his leave ; that 

place 
With double interest would she nightly 

trace ! 
Happy he sailed, and great the care she 

took 
That he should softly sleep and smartly look ; 
White was his better linen, and his check 
Was made more trim than any on the deck ; 
And every comfort men at sea can know 
Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : 
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she 

told 
How he should guard against the climate's 

cold 
Yet saw not danger ; dangers he'd withstood, 
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. 
His messmates smiled at flushings on 

his cheek. 
And he too smiled, but seldom would he 

speak. 
For now he found the danger, felt the pain. 
With grievous symptoms he could not 

explain. 
He called his friend, and prefaced with a 

sigh 
A lover's message, — "Thomas, I must die; 
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest 
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast. 
And gazing go! — if not, th»is tritle take, 
And say, till death I wore it for her sake; 
Yes! 1 must die — blow on, sweet breeze 

blow on ! 
Give me one look before m\- life be gone! 
O, give me that, and let me not despair! 
One last fond look ! — and now repeat the 

prayer." 
He had his wish, had more: I will not 

paint 
The lovers' meeting ; she beheld him faint, — 
With tender fears, she took a nearer view, 
Her terrors doubling as her hopes with- 
drew ; 
He tried to smile, and half succeeding said, 
"Yes! I must die "—and hope forever fled. 
Still, long she nursed him ; tender 

thoughts meantime 



Were interchanged, and hopes and \iews 

sublime. 
To her he came to die, and every day 
She took some portion of the dread away ; 
With him she prayed, to him his Bible read, 
Soothed tlie faint heart and held the aching 

head ; 
She came with smiles the hour of pain tc 

cheer. 
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear; 
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the 

grave. 
One day he lighter seemed, and thev 

forgot 
The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot. 
A sudden brightness in his look appeared, 
A sudden vigor in his voice was heard; — 
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, 
And led him forth, and placed him in his 

chair. 
Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew ; 
The friendly many, and the favorite few; 

but then his. hand was prest, 

And fondl}' whispered, "Thou must go tc^ 

rest." 
" I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found 
H'is hand more cold, and fluttering was the 

sound ; 
Then gazed aftrighted ; but she caught a last, 
A dving look of love, and all was past! 
She placed a decent stone his grave above, 
Neath' engraved, — an oftering of her love; 
For that she wrought, for that forsook her 

bed. 
Awake alike to duty and the dead; 
She would have grieved had friends pre- 
sumed to spare 
The least assistance, — 't was her proper 

care. 
Here will she come, and on the grave will 

sit. 
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit; 
But if observer pass, will take her round, 
And careless seem, for she would not be 

tbund ; 

Then go again, and thus her hours employ, 

While visions please her, and while woes 

destroy. 

George Crabbe. 




TIIK MOIRNKR. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



273 



ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT 
BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. 

AxD thou hast walked about, (how strange 
a stor}' !) 
In Thebe's streets three thousand years 
ago, 
When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 

And time had not begun to overthrow 
Those temples, palaces, and piles studend- 

ous, 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 

Speak ! tor thou long enough hast acted 
dummy ; 
Thou hast a tongue — come — let us hear 
its tune; 

Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, 
mummy! 
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon — 

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied crea- 
tures, 

But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs 
and features. 

Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect 
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's 
fame.-" 
Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 

Of either pyi-amid that bears his name.'' 
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer.'^ 
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
Homer.'' 

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade — 
Then say what secret melody was hidden 
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise 
played .'' 
Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so, my strug- 
gles 
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its jug' 
gles. 

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat. 
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharoah, glass to 
glass; 



Or dropped a half-penny in Homer's hat 
Or dofted thine own to let Queen Dido 
pass; 
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
A torch at the great temple's dedication. 

I need UDt ask thee if that hand, when 
armed. 
Has any Roman soldier mauled an^ 
knuckled ; 

For thou wert dead, and buried, and em- 
balmed. 
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suck- 
led : 

Antiquity appears to have begun 

Long after thy primeval race was run. 



Thou could'st develop — if that withered 
tongue 
Might tell us what those sightless orbs 
have seen — 
How the world looked when it was fresh 
and young. 
And the great deluge still had left it 
green ; 
Or was it then so old that history's pages 
Contained no record of its early ages.'' 



Still silent! incommunicative elf! 

Art sworn to secrecy.'' then keep thy 
vows ; 
But prythee tell us something of thyself — 

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house; 
Since in the world of spirits thou hast 

slumbered — 
What hast thou seen — what strange adven- 
tures numbered.? 



Since first thy form was in this box exten- 
ded 
We have, above ground, seen some 
strange mutations; 
The Roman empire has begun and ended — 
New worlds have risen — we have lost old 
nations; 



274 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And countless kings have into dust been 

humbled, 
While not a fragment of thy flesh has 

crumbled. 

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head 
When the great Persian conqueror, Cam- 
byses. 
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thun- 
dering tread — 
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis; 
And shook the pyramids with fear and 

wonder, 
When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, 

The nature of thy private life unfold : 
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern 
breast. 
And tears adown thy dusky cheek have 
rolled ; 
Have children climbed those knees, and 

kissed that face? 
What was thy name and station, age and 
race ? 

Statue of flesh — Immortal of the dead ! 
Imperishable type of evanescene! 

Posthumous man — who quitt'st thy narrow 
bed. 
And standest undecayed within our pres- 
ence! 

Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment 
morning, 

When the great trump shall thrill thee with 
its warning. 

Why should this worthless tegument en- 
dure, 
If its undying guest be lost for ever? 
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
In living virtue — that when both must 
sever. 
Although corruption may our frame con- 
sume. 
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 

Horace Smith. 



MORNING. 

His compassions fail not; they are new every morn* 
ing-. — Lamen. iii. 22, 23. 

Hues of the rich unfolding morn. 
That, ere the glorious sun be born, 
By some soft touch invisible 
Around his path are taught to swell; — 

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay. 
That dancest forth at opening day, 
And brushing by with joyous wing, 
Wakenest each little leaf to sing; — 

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, 
By which deep grove and tangled stream 
Pay, for soft rains in season given. 
Their tribute to the genial heaven ; — 

Why waste your treasures of delight 
Upon our thankless, joyless sight. 
Who day by day to sin awake, 
Seldom of heaven and you partake? 

Oh! timely happy, timely wise. 
Hearts that with rising morn arise! 
Eyes that the beam celestial view, 
Which evermore makes all things new! 

New every morning is the love 
Our wakening and uprising prove; 
Through sleep and darkness safely brought, 
Restored to life, and power, and thought. 

New mercies, each returning day, 
Hover around us while we pray ; 
New perils past, new sins forgiven, 
New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. 

If on our daily course our mind 
Be set to hallow all we find. 
New treasures still, of countless price, 
God will provide for sacrifice. 

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be. 
As more of heaven in each we see: 
Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
Shall dawn on every cross and care. 



i 



OF POETR2- AND SONG. 



275 



I 



As for some dear familiar strain 
Untir'd we ask, and ask again, 
Ever, in its melodious store, 
Finding a spell unheard before. 

Such is the bliss of souls serene. 

When they have sworn, and steadfast mean, 

Counting the cost, in all t' espy 

Their God, in all themselves deny. 

O could we learn that sacrifice. 
What lights would all around us rise! 
How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
Along life's dullest, dreariest walk! 

We need not bid, for cloister'd cell. 
Our neighbor and our work farewell. 
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
For sintul man beneath the sky. 

The trivia' round, the common task. 
Would furnish all we ought to ask; 
Room to deny ourselves ; a road 
To bring ua, daily, nearer God. 

Seek we no more; content with these. 
Let present rapture, comfort, ease. 
As Heaven shall bid them, come and go:— 
The secret this of rest below. 

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love 
Fits us for perfect rest above ; 
And help us, this and every day, 
To live more nearly as we pray. 

John Keble. 



PRE-EXISTENCE. 

While sauntering through the crowded 

street. 
Some half-remembered face I meet. 

Albeit upon no mortal shore 

That face, methinks, has smiled before. 



Lost in a gay and festal throng, 
I tremble at some tender song, — 

Set to an air whose golden bars 
I must have heard in other stars. 

In sacred aisles I pause to share 
The blessings of a priestly prayer, — 

When the whole scene which greets mine 

eyes 
In some strange mode I recognize 

As one whose every mystic part 
I feel prefigured in my heart. 

At sunset, as I calmly stand, 
A stranger on an alien strand, 

Familiar as my childhood's home 

Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. 

One sails toward me o'er the bay, 
And what he comes to do and say 

I can foretell. A prescient lore 
Springs from some life outlived of yore. 

O swift, instinctive, startling gleams 
Of deep soul-knowledge! not as dreams j 

For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, 
But oft with lightning certainty 

Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain. 
To make old thoughts and memories 
plain, — 

Thoughts whicli perchance must travel 

back 
Across the wild, bewildering track 

Of countless aeons; memories far, 
High-reaching as yon pallid star. 

Unknown, scarce seen, whose flickering 

grace 
Faints on the utmost rings of space! 

Paul H. Hayne. 



276 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE LIGHTING-ROD DISPENSER. 

Which this railway smash reminds me, in 
an underhanded way, 

Of a lightning-rod dispenser that came 
down on me one day; 

Oiled to order in his motions — sancti- 
monious in his mien — 

Hands as while as any baby's, an' a face 
unnat'ral clean; 

Not a wrinkle had his raiment, teeth and 
linen glittered white. 

And his new-constructed neck-tie was an 
interestin' sight! 

Which I almost wish a razor had made red 
that white-skinned throat. 

And that new constructed neck-tie had 
composed a hangman's knot, 

Ere he brought his sleek-trimmed carcass 
for my woman folks to see. 

And his buzz-saw tongue a-runnm' for to 
gouge a gash in me. 

Still I couldn't help but like him — as I fear 
I al'ays must, 

The gold o' my own doctrine in a fellow- 
heap o' dust; 

For I saw that my opinions, when I fired 
them round by round. 

Brought back an answerin' volley of a 
mighty similar sound. 

I touched him on religion, and the joys my 
heart had known; 

And I found that he had very similar no- 
tions of his own ! 

I told him of the doubtings that made sad 
my boyhood years; 

Why, he'd laid awake till morning with 
that same old breed of fears ! 

I pointed up the pathway that I hoped to 

heaven to go : 
He was on that very ladder, only just a 

round below! 
Our politics was different, and at first he 

galled and winced ; 
But I arg'ed him so able, he was very soon 

convinced 



And 'twas gettin' tow'rd the middle of a 

hungry summer day — 
There was dinner on the table, and I asked 

him, would he stay.' 
And he sat him down among us — everlastin' 

trim and neat— 
And he asked a short crisp blessin' almost 

good enough to eat! 
Then he fired up on the mercies of our 

Everlastin' Friend, 
Till he gi'n the Lord Almighty a good 

first-class recommend ; 
And for full an hoin- we listened to that 

sugar-coated-scamp — 
Talkin' like a blessed angel — eatin' like a 

blasted tramp! 

My wife — she liked the stranger, smiling 

on him warm and sweet; 
(It al'ays flatters women when their guests 

are on the eat !) 
And he hinted that some ladies never lose 

their youthful charms. 
And caressed her yearlin' baby, and received 

it in his arms. 
My sons and daughters liked him — for he 

had progressive views. 
And he chewed tiie cud o' fancy, and gi'n 

down the latest news ; 
And / could'nt help but like him — as I fear 

I al'ays must. 
The gold of my own doctrines in a fellow- 
heap o'dust. 

He was chiselin' desolation through a piece 

of apple-pie. 
When he paused an' gazed upon us, with a 

tear in his off-eye. 
And said "Oh, happy family! — your joys 

they make me sad ! 
They all the time remind me of the dear 

ones once / had ! 
A babe as sweet as this one ; a wife almost 

as fair; 
A little girl with ringlets, like that one 

over there. 
But had I not neglected the means within 

my way 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



377 



Then they might still be living, and loving 
me to-daj. 



"One night there came a tempest; the 

thunder peals were dire; 
The clouds that marched above us were 

shooting bolts of fire; 
In mv own house I lying, was thinking, to 

my shame, 
How little I had guarded against those 

bolts of tlame. 
When crash [—through roof and ceiling 

the deadly lightning cleft. 
And killed my wife and children, and only 

I was left! 



"Since then afar I've wandered, and 

naught for life have cared. 
Save to ba\e others' loved ones whose lives 

ha\e yet been spared ; * 

Since then, it is my mission, where'ei by 

sorrow tossed, 
To sell to worthy people good lightning- 
rods at cost. 
With sure and strong protection I'll clothe 

your buildings o'er; 
'Twill cost you— twenty dollars {pcrhafs a 

inflc more ; 
Whatever else it comes to, at lowest price 

I'll put; 
You simply sign a conlract to pay so much 

per foot)". 



I— si< 

The 

That 

They 

They 

Thev 



jned it ! while my family, all approvin', 
stood about; 

villain dropped a tear on't— but he 
did'nt blot it out! 

selfsame day, with wagons, came 
some rascals great and small; 
hopped up on my buildin's just as if 
they owned 'em all; 
hewed 'em and they hacked 'em— 
agin' my loud desires — 
trimmed 'em off with gewgaws, and 
they bound 'em down with wires; 



They hacked 'em and they hewed 'em 
and they hewed and hacked 'em still, 

And every precious minute kep' a runnin' 
up the bill. 

To find my soft-spoke neighbor, did I rave 
and rush and run : 

He was suppin' with a neighbor, just a few- 
miles further on. 

"Do you think," I loudly shouted, "that I 
need a mile o'wire 

For to save each separate hay-cock out 
o' heaven's consumin' fire.? 

Did you think to keep my buildin's out 
o' some uncertain harm, 

I was goin' to deed you over all the balance 
of my tarm.' 



He silenced me with silence in a verv little 

while. 
And then trotted out the contract with a 

reassuring smile; 
And for half an hour explained it, with ex- 

asperatin' skill, 
While his myrmurdums kep' probably a 

runnin' up my bill. 
He held me to that contract with a firmness 

queer to see; 
'Twas the very first occasion he had 

disagreed with me! 
And for that 'ere thunder story, ere the 

rascal finally went, 
I paid two hundred dollars, if I paid a single 

cent. 

And if any lightnin'-rodist wants a din- 
ner-dialogue 

With the restaurant department of an en- 
terprisin' dog. 

Let him set his mouth a-runnin' just inside 
my outside gate; 

-And I'll bet two hundred dollars that he 
won't have long to wait. 

Will Carleton. 



278 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



A MODEST CREED. 

Believe as I believe, no more no less: 
That I am right, and no one else, confess ; 
Feel as I feel, think only as I think; 
Eat what I eat and drink but what I drink ; 
Look as I look, do always as I do. 
And then, and only then, I'll fellowship 
with you. 



That I am right, and always right, I know. 
Because my own convictions tell me so; 
And to be right is simply this — to be 
Entirely and in all respects like me; 
To deviate a hair's breadth, or begin 
To question, or to doubt, or hesitate, is sin. 



I reverence the Bible, if it be 
Translated first and then explained by me; 
By churchly laws and customs I abide, 
If they with my opinions coincide : 
All creeds and doctrines I concede divine, 
Excepting those, of course, which disagree 
with mine. 



Let sink the drowning, if he will not swim 
Upon the plank that I throw out to him; 
Let starve the hungry, if he will not eat 
My kind and quantity of bread and meat; 
Let freeze the naked, if he will not be 
Clothed in such garments as are made for 
me. 



'Twere better that the sick should die than 
live. 

Unless they take the medicine I give; 

'Twere better sinners perish, than refuse 

To be conformed to my peculiar views; 

'Twere better that the world stand still, 
than move 

In any other way than that which I ap- 
prove. 

Anonymous. 



HASTE NOT ! REST NOT ! 

Without haste! without rest! 
Bind the motto to thy breast; 
Bear it with thee as a spell ; 
Storm and sunshine, guard it well ! 
Heed not flowers that 'round thee bloom, 
Bear it onward to the tomb! 

Haste not! Let no thoughtless deed 
Mar for aye the spirit's_speed ! 
Ponder well, and know the right. 
Onward then, with all thy might! 
Haste not! years can ne'er atone 
For one reckless action done. 

Rest not ! Life is sweeping by, 
Go and dare, before you die; 
Something mighty and sublime 
Leave behind to conquer time! 
Glorious 'tis to live for aye. 
When these forms have passed away. 

Haste not! rest not! calmly wait; 
Meekly bear the storms of fate! 
Duty be thy polar guide; — 
Do the right whate'er betide! 
Haste not! rest not! conflicts past, 
God shall crown thy work at last. 

J. W. De Goethe. 



HAPPINESS. 

There are in this rude stunning tide 

Of human care and crime. 
With whom the melodies abide 

Of the everlasting chime: 
Who carry music in their heart. 
Through dusty lane and wrangling mart, 
Plving their daily toil with busier feet, 
Because their secret souls a holy strain re- 
peat. 

John Keble. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



278 



MICHAEL ANGELO IN VIA LARGA. 

Pietro the unworthy successor of Lorenzo the 
Magfnificent, when asked by Michael Angelo for 
marble from Ihe royal mines, answered the great 
Sculptor scornfully, and bade him^build his statues 
in snow. 

I DO believe, divinest Angelo, 

That winter-hour in Via Larga, when 
They bade thee build a statue up in snow, 
And straight that marvel of thine art 
again 
Dissolved beneath the sun's Italian glow, 
Thine eyes, dilated with the plastic pas- 
sion, 
Thawing too, in drops of wounded man- 
hood, since, 
To mock alike thine art and indignation, 
Laughed at the palace-window the new 
prince, — 
('Aha! this genius needs for exaltation. 
When all's said, and howe'er the proud may 

wince, 
A little marble from oiu- princely mines! ') 
I do believe that hour thou laughedst 
too, 
For the whole sad world and' for thy 

Florentines, 
After these few tears — which were only 
few ! 
That as, beneath the sun, the grand white 
lines 
Of thy snow statute trembled and with- 
drew, — 
The head, erect as Jove's, being palsied 
first. 
The eyelids flattened, the full brow turned 
blank, — 
The right hand, raised but now as if it 
cursed, 
Dropt, a mere snowball, (till the people 
sank 
Their voices, though a louder laughter 
burst 
From the royal window,) thou couldst 
proudly thank 
God and tlie prince for promise and pre- 
sage. 
And laugh the laugh back, I think verily. 



Thine eyes being purged by tears of 
righteous rage 
To read a wrong into a prophecy. 

And measure a true great man's herit- 
a""e 
Against a mere great duke's posterity. 
I think thy soul said then, " I do not 
need 
A princedom and its quarries after all ; 
For if I write, paint, carve a word, in- 
deed. 
On book or board or dust, on floor or wall, 
The same is kept of God who taketh 
heed 
That not a letter of the meaning fall, 

Or ere it touch and teach His world's 
deep heart. 
Outlasting, therefore, all your lordships, 
sir! 
So keep your stone, beseech you, for 
your part. 
To cover up your grave-place and refer 
The proper titles! / live by my art! 
The thought I threw into this snow shall 
stir 
This gazing people when their gaze is 
done; 
And the tradition of your act and mine. 

When all the snow is melted in the sun. 
Shall gather up, for unborn men, a sign 
Of what is the true princedom ! ay, and 
none 
Shall laugh that day, except the drunk 
W'ith wine." 

Amen, great Angelo ! the day's at hand. 
Elizabeth Barrett Browxing. 



CHARITY. 

He erred, no doubt, perhaps he sinned ; 
Shall I then dare to cast a stone ? 
Perhaps this blot on a garment white, 
Counts less then the dingy robes I own, 

George Houghton. 



280 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



TFiROUGH CASA GUIDI 
WINDOWS. 

The sun strikes through the windows, 
up the floor: 
Stand out in it, my own young Florentine 
Not two years old, and let me see thee 
more! 
It grows along thy amber curls to shine 
Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look 
straight before, 
And fix thy brave blue English eyes on 
mine, 
And from my soul, which fronts the fu- 
ture so, 
With unabashed and unabated gaze. 

Teach me to hope for, what the Angels 
know 
When thev smile clear as thou dost, down 
- God's ways, 
With just alighted feet between the snow 
And snowdrops, where a little lamb may 
graze, 
Thou hast no fear, my Iamb, about the 
road. 
Albeit in our vain-glory we assume 

That, less than we have, thou hast learnt 
of God. 
Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet! — thou to 
whom 
The earliest world-day light that ever 
flowed, 
Through Casa Guidi windows, chanced to 
come ! 
Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy 
hair. 
And be God's witness — that the elemental 
New springs of life are gushing every- 
where 
To cleanse the water-courses, and prevent all 
Concrete obstructions which infest the 
air! 
— That earth's alive, and gentle or ungentle 
Motions within her, signify but growth ! — 
The ground s\vells greenest o'er the labour- 
ing moles. 
Howe'er the uneasy world is vexed and 
wroth 



Young children, lifted high on parent 
souls, 
Look round them with a smile upon the 
mouth. 
And take for music every bell that tolls, 
Who said we should be better if like 
these.' 
But ive sit murmuring for the future 
though 
Posteritv is smiling on our knees. 
Convicting us of tolly.' Let us go — 
We will trust God. The blank inter- 
stices 
Men take for ruins. He will build into 
With pillared marbles rare, or knit 
across 
With generous arches, till the fane's com- 
plete. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



O GENTLE SUMMER RAIN. 

O GENTLE, gentle summer rain, 

Let not the silvery lily pine. 
The drooping lily pine in vain 

To feel that dewy touch of ins,— 
To drink thy freshness once again, 
O gentle, gentle summer rain! 

In heat the landscape quivering lies; 

The cattle pant beneath the tree; 
Through parching air and purple skies 

The earth looks up, in vain, for thee; 
For thee, — for thee, it looks in vain, 
O gentle, gentle summer rain! 

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, 
And soften all the hills with mist, 

O falling dew! from burning dreams 
By thee shall herb and flower be kissed, 

And Earth shall bless thee yet again, 

O gentle, gentle summer rain ! 

William Cox Bennett. 



FROM " THE DRAMA OF EXILE." 

Eternity stands always fronting God; 
A stern colossal image, witlj blind eyes 
And grand dim lips that murmur ever- 
more 
God, God, God! While the rush of life 

and death. 
The roar of act and thought, of evil and 

good, 
The avalanches of the ruining worlds 
Tolling down space, — the new world's 

genesis 
Budding in fire, — the gradual humming 

growth 
Of the ancient atoms and first forms of 

earth. 
The slow procession of the swathing seas 
And firmamental waters, — and the noise 
Of tiie broad, fluent strata of pure airs, — 
All these flow onward in the intervals 
Of that reiterated sound of — God! 

Which WORD, innumerous angels straight- 
way lift 
Wide on celestial altitudes of song 
And choral adoration, and then drop 
The burden soflly, shutting the last notes 
In silver wings. 

Exiled human creatures. 

Let your hope grow larger, 
Larger grows the vision 

Of the new delight. 
From this chain of Nature's, 

God is the Discharger; 
And the Actual's prison 

Opens to your sight. 

Future joy and far light 

Working such relations, 
Hear us singing gently 

Exiled is not lost! 
God, above the starlight, 

God, above the patience, 
Shall at last present ve 

Guerdons worth the cost. 



Patiently enduring. 
Painfully surrounded. 
Listen how we love you — 

Hope the uttermost — 
Waiting for that curing 

Which exalts the wounded, 
Hear us sing above you — 

Exiled, but not lost! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



HOPE. 

And do not fear to hope. Can poet's brain 

More than the father's heart rich good in- 
vent? 

Each time we smell the autumn's dying 
scent. 

We know the primrose time will come again; 

Not more we hope, nor less would soothe 
our pain. 

Be boundless in thy faith, for not misspent 

Is confidence unto the Father lent; 

Thy need is sown and rooted for His rain. 

His thoughts are as thine own; nor are His 
ways 

Other than thine, but by their loftier sense 

Of beauty infinite and love intense. 

Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts 
of praise, 

A sunny joy will crown thee with its rays; 

Nor other than thy need, thy recompense. 

George MacDonald. 



PERFECTION. 

To gild refined gold, to paint the lilv, 
To throw a perfume on the violet, 
To smooth the ice, or add another hue 
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light 
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to 

garnish. 
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess. 

William Shakespeare. 



283 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



FLORENCE VANE. 

I LOVED thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane; 
My life's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 
I renew, in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain — 
My hopes, and thy derision 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin, lone and hoary, 

The ruin old 
Where thou didst hark my story 

At even told — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Oi sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovlier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rhyme ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never 

Florence Vane. 

But, fairest, coldest wonder! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the grf en sod under — 

Alas ! the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep; 
The daisies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep. 
May their bloom in beauty vying 

Never wane 
Where thy mortal clay is lying 

Florence Vane. 

Philip P. Cooke. 



DAWN. 

Juliet. — Wilt thou be gone.? It is not 

yet near day, 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine 

ear: 
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate 

tree : 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

Romeo. — It was the lark, the herald of 

the morn. 
No nightingale: look, love, what envious 

streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: 
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund 

day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops; 
I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

William Shakespeare. 



THE COSMIC EGG. 

Upon a rock yet uncreate, 

Amid a chaos inchoate. 

An uncreated being sate; 

Beneath him, rock. 

Above him, cloud. 

And the cloud was rock. 

And the rock was cloud. 

The rock then growing soft and warm 

The cloud began to take a form, 

A form chaotic, vast and vague. 

Which issued in the cosmic egg. 

Then the Being uncreate 

On the egg did incubate, 

And thus became the incubator; 

And of the egg did allegate. 

And thus became the alligator; 

And the incubator was potentate, 

But the alligator was potentator. 

Anonymous. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



283= 



THE FROST. 

The frost looked forth one still, clear night, 
And whispered, "Now I shall be out of 

sight; 
So through the valley and over the height 

In silence I'll take my way. 
I will not go on like that blustering train, 
The wind and the snow, the hail and the 

rain. 
Who make so much bustle and no,se in 

vain. 
But I'll be as busy as they." 

Then he flew to the mountain, and pow- 
dered its crest; 
He lit on the trees and their boughs he 

dressed 
In diamond beads; and over the breast 

Of the quivering lake he spread 
A coat of mail, that need not fear 
The downward point of many a spear, 
That he hung on its margin, far and near, 

Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who 

slept, 
And over each pane like a fairy crept; 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he 

stepped, 
By the light of the morn were seen 
Most beautiful thmgs; there were flowers, 

and trees. 
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of 

bees; 
There were cities with temples and towers ; 

and these 
All pictures in silver sheen! 

But he did one thing that was hardly fair, 
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding 

there 
That all had forgotton for him to prepare, 

" Now just to set them a-thinking, 
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, 
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three; 
And the glass of water they've left for me 

Shall 'tchick! to tell them I'm drink- 
ing." 

Hannah F. Gould. 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my 
brothers. 
Ere the sorrow comes with years .^ 
They are leaning their young heads against 
their mothers. 
And that cannot stop their tears. 
The 3'oung lambs are bleating in the mead- 
ows; 
The young birds are chirping in their 
nest; 
The )oung fawns are playing with their 
shadows; 
The young flowers are blowing toward 
the West — 
But the young, young children, O my 
brothers, 
They are weeping bitterly ! 
They are weeping in the playtime of the 
others. 
In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in their 
sorrow. 

Why their tears are falling so.-* 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

Which is lost in Long Ago — 
The old tree is leafless in the forest — 

The old year is ending in the frost — 
The old wound if stricken is the sorest — 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, O my 
brothers, 

Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers, 

In our happy Fatherland.' 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their looks are sad to see. 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and 
presses 
Down the cheeks of infancy — 
"Your old earth," they say, "is very 
dreary," 
"Our young feet," they say, " are very- 
weak ! 



1 

■284 11^^- US TRA TED 


HOME BOOK 


Few paces have we taken yet are weary, 


Leave us quiet in the dearth of the coal 


Our grave rest is very far to seek: 


shadows. 


Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 


From your pleasures fair and fine ! 


children. 




For the outside world is cold, 


' For oh' say the children, 'we are weary 


And we young ones stand without in our 


And we cannot run or leap — 


bewildering. 


If we cared for any meadows, it were 


And the graves are for the old." 


merely 




To drop down in them and sleep. 


' True' say the children ' it may happen 


Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping — 


That we die before our time : 


We fall upon our faces trying to go: 


\ Little Alice died last year — her grave is 


And underneath our heavy eyelids droop- 


shapen 


ing 


Like a snow-ball in the rime. 


The reddest flower would look as pale as 


We look into the pit prepared to take her — 


snow. 


Was no room for any work in the close 


For all day long we drag our burden tiring 


clay : 


Through the coal dark underground. 


From the sleep wherein she lieth none wil 


Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 


wake her 


In the factories round and round. 


Crying: ' Get up, little Alice, it is day.' 




If you listen by that grave in sun and 


' For all day the wheels are droning turn- 


shower 


ing,— 


With your ear down little Alice never 


Their wind comes in our faces, — 


cries ! 


Till our hearts turn, — our heads with 


Could we see her face, be sure we should 


pulses burning. 


not know her. 


And the walls turn in their places — 


For the smile has time for growing in 


Turns the sky in the high window blank 


her eyes, 


and reeling — 


And merry go the moments lulled and 


Turns the long light that drops adown 


stilled in 


the wall — 


The shroud bj- the kirk-chime! 


Turn the black flies that crawl along the 


It is good when it happens say the children, 


ceiling 


That we die before our time! ' 


All are turning, all the day, and we with 
all! 


Alas! alas! the children! they are seeking 


And all day the iron wheels are droning; 


Death in life as best to have, 


And sometimes we could pray. 


They are binding up their hearts away 


' O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad 


from breaking 


moaning,) 


With a cerement from the grave ! 


' Stop ! Be silent for to day ! ' 


Go out, children, from the mine and city — 




Sing out, children, as the little thrushes 


Ay! Be silent! Let them hear each 


do- 


other breathing 


Pluck your handfuls of the little cowslips 


For a moment mouth to mouth — 


pretty — 


Let them touch each others hands in a 


Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 


fresh wreathing 


them through! 


Of their tender human youth ! 


JBut they answer 'are your cowslips of the 


Let them feel that this cold metalic motion 


meadows 


^s not all the life God fashions or 


Like our weeds anear the mine? 


reveals — 



OF POETR7' AND SONG. 



285 



Let them prove their living souls against 
the notion 
That they live in you, or under you, O 
wheels ! — 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward. 

Grinding life down from its mark; 
And the children's souls which God is call- 
ing sunward 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, O my 
brothers, 
To look up to Him and pray — 
So the Blessed One who blesseth all the 
others 
\V' ill bless them another day. 
They answer, who is God that He should 
liear us 
While the rushing of the iron wheels 
is stirred.'' 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a 
word ! 
And tvc hear not (for the wheels in their 
* resounding) 

Strangers speaking at the door: 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round 
Him, 
Hears our weeping any more.'' 

Two words indeed of praying we remem. 
ber ; 
And at midnight's hour of harm 
' Our Father,' looking upward in the cham- 
ber. 
We say softly for a charm. 
We know no other words except ' Our 
Father,' 
And we think that in some pause of an- 
gels' song 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet 
together 
And hold both within His right hand, 
which is strong. 
' Our Father,' if He heard us, He would 
surely 
(For they call him good and mild) 



Answer smiling down the steep world very 
purely, 
' Come and rest with me, my child.' 

' But, no !' say the children, w^eeping faster, 

He is speechless as a stone; 
And they tell us of His image in the Mas- 
ter 
Who commands us to work on. 
' Go to!' say the children — ' Up in Heaven, 
Dark wheel-like turning clouds are all 
we find : 
Do not mock us; grief has made us un- 
believing, — 
We look up for God but tears have made 
us blind.' 
Do you hear the children Aveeping and dis- 
proving, 
O my brothers, what ye preach.'' 
For God's possible is taught by His world's 
loving — 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before 
you ; 
They are weary ere they run; 
They have never seen the sunshine nor the 
glory 
Which is brighter than the sun ; 
They know the grief of man without his 
wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without its 
calm — 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christen- 
dom, 
Are martyrs bj- the pang without the 
palm — 
Are worn as if with age yet unretrievingly 
The harvest of its memories cannot reap — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and heav- 
enly — 
Let them weep ! Let them weep ! 
They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their look is dread to see. 
For they mind us of their angels in high 
places 
With eyes turned on Deity ; — 



286 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



' How long,' they say, ' how long, O cruel 


— A shore like that, my dear, 


Nation, 


Lies where no man will steer, 


Will you stand, to move the world, on a 


No maiden land. 


child's heart — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita- 


Algernon Swinburne. 


tion, 




And tread onward to vour throne amid 




the mart? 
Our blood splashes upward, O gold heaper. 
And your purple shows your path; 


IN MEMORIAM — PRESIDENT 
GARFIELD. 


But the child's sob in the silence curses 


Now all ye flowers make room ; 


deeper 


Hither we come in gloom 


Than the strong man in his wrath!' 


To make a mighty tomb. 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


Sighing and weeping. 
Grand was the life he led ; 




Wise was each word he said; 




But with the noble dead 




We leave him sleeping. 


LOVE AT SEA. 


Soft may his body rest 


We are in love's land to day; 

Where shall we go.^ 
Love shall we start or stay, 

Or sail or row ? 
There's many a wind and way, 
And never a may but may ; 
We are in love's land to-day ; 


As on his mother's breast. 
Whose love stands all confessed 

Mid blinding tears; 
But may his soul so white 
Rise in triumphant flight 
And in God's land of light 

Spend endless years. 


Where shall we go ? 


Professor David Swing. 


Our landwind is the breath 




Of sorrows kissed to death 




And joys that were; 


TO MY DAUGHTER. 


Our ballast is a rose; 
Our way lies where God knows 
And love knows where. 

We are in love's land to-day — 


Learn to live, and live to learn. 
Ignorance like a fire doth burn, 
Little tasks make large return. 


Where shall we land you sweet .^ 
On fields of strange men's feet. 
Or fields near home ? 


In thy labors patient be. 
Afterward released and free, ■ 
Nature will be bright to thee. 


Or where the fire-flowers blow 


Toil when willing groweth less; 


Or where the flowers of snow 


" Always play " may seem to bless. 


Or flowers of foam ? 


Yet the end is weariness. 


We are in love's land to-day — 


Live to learn and learn to live. 


Land me, she says, where love 
Shows but one shaft, one dove, 


Only this, content can give. 
Reckless joys are fugitive. 


One heart, one hand, 


Bayard Taylor. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



287 



LOVE. 

FROM " SONGS OF SEVEN." 

I LEANED out of the windovv, I smelt the 
white clover, 
Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not 
the gate ; 
«' Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my 
one lover — 
Hush, nightingale, hush! O, sweet 
nightingale, wait 

Till I listen and hear 
If a step draweth near; 
For my love, he is late ! 

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer 
and nearer, 
A cluster of stars hangs like fruit on the 
tree: 
The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes 
clearer; — 
To what art thou listening, and what 
dost thou see.'' 

Let the star-clusters glow, 
Let the sweet waters flow, 
And cross quickly to me. 

■*' You night-moths that hover where honey 
brims over 
From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or 
sleep; 
You glow-worms shine out, and the path- 
way discover 
To him that comes darkling along the 
rough steep. 

Ah, my sailor, make haste. 
For the time runs to waste. 
And my love lieth deep — 

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my 

one lover, 
I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee 

to-night." 
By the sycamore passed he, and through 

the white clover, 



And all the sweet speech T had fashioned 
took tlight. 

But I'll love him more, more 
Than e'er wife loved before, 
Be the days dark or bright. 

Jean Ingelow. 



"SHALL I WED THEE.?" 

The vioiet loves a sunny bank. 

The cowslip loves the lea, 
The scarlet creeper loves the elm, 
But I love — thee. 

The sunshine kisses mount and vale, 

The stars, they kiss the sea, 
The west winds kiss the clover bloom. 
But I kiss — thee. 

The oriole weds his mottled mate. 

The lily is bride o' the bee; 
Heaven's marriage ring is round the earth,- 
Shall I wed thee.? 

Bayard Taylor. 



LIFE WILL BE GONE 
HAVE LIVED." 



ERE I 



Life will be gone ere I have lived; 

Where now is life's first prime.? 
I've worked and studied, longed and griev- 
ed 

Through all that busy time. 
To toil, to think, to long, to grieve — 

Is such my future fate.? 
The morn was dreary, must the eve 

Be also desolate.? 
Well such a life at least makes Death 

A welcome wished-for friend 
Then aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith, 
To suffer to the end. 

Charlotte Bronte» 



288 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE TAPESTRY WEAVERS. 

Let us take to our hearts a lesson — no les- 
son can braver be — 
From the ways of tlie tapestry weavers 

on the other side of the sea. 
Above their heads the pattern hangs, they 

study it with care, 
And while their fingers deftly work, their 

eyes are fastened there. 
They tell this curious thing, besides, of the 

patient, plodding weaver; 
He works on the Avrong side evermore, but 

works for the right side ever. 
It is only when the weaving stops, and the 

web is tossed and turned, 
And he sees his real handiwork, that his 

marvelous skill is learned. 
Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it 

pays him for all it cost. 
No rarer, daintier work than his was evftr 

done by the trost. 
Thus the master bringeth him golden hire 

and giveth him praises as well, 
And how happy the heart of the weaver is, 

no tongue but his own can tell. 



The years of man are the looms of God 

let down from the place of the slm. 
Wherein we are weaving always, till the 

mystic web is done. 
Weaving kindly; but weaving surely, each 

for himsell', his fate. 
We may not see how the right side looks, 

we can only weave and wait. 
But looking above for the pattern, no 

weaver hath need to fear, 
Only let him look clear into heaven — the 

perfect pattern is there. 
If he keeps the face of the Savior forever 

and always in sight, 
His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his 

weaving is sure to be right. 
And when his task is ended, and the web 

is turned and shown, 
He shall hear the voice of the Master, it 

shall say to him, " Well done!" 



And the white-winged angels of heaven to 
bear him thence shall come down. 

And God shall give him gold for his hire, 
not coin, but a fadeless crown. 

Anonymous. 



WORK. 

What are we set on earth for.'' Say, to 

toil— 
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines, 
For all the heat o' the day, till it declines. 
And Death's mild curfew- shall from work 

assoil. 
God did anoint thee with His odorous oil, 
To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns 
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines, 
For younger fellow- workers of the soil 
To wear for amulets. So others shall 
Take patience, labor, to their heart and 

hand, 
From thy hand and thy heart, and thy 

brave cheer. 
And God's grace fructify through thee to 

all. 
The least flower, with a brimming cup, 

may stand 
And share its dew-drop with another near.^ 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



COURTESY. 

How sweet and gracious even in common. 

speech. 
Is that fine sense which men call Courtesy ! 
Wholesome as air and genial as the light. 
Welcome in every clime as breath of 

•flowers, — 
It transmutes aliens into trusting friends, 
And gives its owner passport round the 

globe. 



James T. Fields. 



OF POETRV AND SONG. 



im 



THERE ARE GAINS FOR ALL OUR 
LOSSES. 

There are gains for all our losses — 

There are balms for ail our pain; 
But when youth, the dream, departs, 
It takes something from our hearts, 
And it never comes again. 

We are stronger and are better, 

Under manhood's sterner reign; 
Still we feel that something sweet 
Followed youth, with flying feet, 
And will never come again. 

Something beautiful has vanished. 

And we sigh for it in vain; 
We behold it everywhere. 
On the earth, and in the air. 

But it never comes again. 

Richard Henry Stoddard. 



RELEASE. 

As one who leaves a prison cell, 

And looks, with glad though dazzled eye. 
Once more on wood and field and sky, 

And feels again the quickening spell 

Of Nature thrill through every vein, 

I leave iny former self behind, 

And, free once more in heart and mind. 
Shake off the old, corroding chain, 

Free from my past — a jailer dread — 
And with the present clasping hands. 
Beneath fair skies, through sunny lands, 

Which memory's ghosts ne'er haunt, I tread. 

The pains and griefs of other days 
May, shadow-like, pursue me yet; 
But toward the sun my face is set. 

His golden light on all my ways. 

AXOXYMOUS. 



MEMORY. 

Nessun magg-ior dolore 
Che recordnrsi del tempo felice, 
Nella iniseria. 

Dante, 

Stand on a funeral mound. 

Far, far from them that love thee: 
With a barren hearth around. 

And a cypress bower above thee: 
And think, while the sad wind frets, 

And the night in cold gloom closes. 
Of spring, and spring's sweet violets, 

Of summer, and summer's roses. 



Sleep where the thunders fly 

Across the tossing billow; 
Thy canopy the sky. 

And the lonely deck thy pillow; 
And dream, while the chill sea-foam 

In mockery dashes o'er thee. 
Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home, 

And the kiss jf her that bore thee 



Watch in the deepest cell 

Of the foeman's dungeon tower 
Till hope's most cherished spell 

Has lost its cheering power; 
And sing, while the galling chain 

On every stifi' limb freezes. 
Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain, 

Of the breath of the mountain breezes. 



Talk of the minstrel's lute, 

The warrior's high endeavor, 
When the honeyed lips are mute, 

And the strong arm crushed for ever; 
Look back to the summer sun. 

From the mist of dark December; 
Then say to the broken-hearted one 

"'Tis pleasant to remember!" 

WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED 






-290 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME. 

Though, when other maids stand by, 
I may deign thee no reply, 
Turn not then away and sigh, — 

Smile and never heed me! 
If our love, indeed, be such 
As must thrill at every touch, 
Why should others learn as much? — 

Smile, and never heed me! 

Even if, with maiden pride, 
I should bid thee quit my side. 
Take this lesson for thy guide, — 

Smile, and never heed me! 
But when stars and twilight meet, 
And the dew is falhng sweet, 
And thou hear'st my coming feet, — 

Then thou — then — mayst heed me! 

Charles Swain. 



KISSING HER HAIR. 

Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet: 
Wove and unwove it — wound and found it 

sweet; 
Made fast therewith her hands, drew down 

her eves 
Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like dim 

skies; 
With her own tresses bound, and found her 

fair, — 

Kissing her hair. 

Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me. 
Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold sea : 
What pain could get between my face and 

hers } 
What new sweet thing would Love not rel- 
ish worse.'' 
Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed 
me there, — 

Kissing her hair. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



THE TWO ANCHORS. 

It was a gallant sailor man. 

Had just come from sea. 
And, as I passed hiin in the town, 

He sang " Ahoy !" to me. 
I stopped, and saw I knew the man, — 

Had known him from a boy; 
And so I answered, sailor-like, 

" Avast !" to his " Ahoy !" 
I made a song for him one day, — 

His ship was then in sight, — 
The little anchor on the left. 

The great one on the right." 

I gave his hand a hearty grip, 

" So you are back again : 
They say you have been pirating 

Upon the Spanish Main ; 
Or was it some rich Indiaman 

You robbed of all her pearls.^ 
Of course you have been breaking hearts 

Of poor Kanaka girls!" 
" Wherever I have been," he said, 

I kept my ship in sight, — 
' The little anchor on the left. 

The great one on the right.' " 

" I heard last night that you were in: 

I walked the wharves to-day. 
But saw no ship that looked like yours, 

Where does the good ship lay "i 
I want to go on board of her. 

''And so you shall," said he; 
" But there are many things to do 

When one comes home from sea. 
You know the song you made for me? 

I sing it morn and night, — 
'The little anchor on the left. 

The great one on the right.' " 

" But how's your wife and little one ?" 

" Come home with me," he said. 
" Go on ; go on : I follow you," 

I followed where he led. 
He had a pleasant little house; 

The door was open wide, 
And at the door the dearest face,— 

A dearer one inside ; 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 291 


He hugged his wife and child ; he sang — 


Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to 


His spirits were so light, — 


the e'ening! — 


" The little anchor on the left, 


Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood 


The great one on the right." 


glen: 


'Twas supper-time, and we sat down, — 


Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and 
winning. 
Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' 
Dumblane. 


The sailor's wife and child. 
And he and I : he looked at them, 
And looked at me, and smiled. 


" I think of this when I am tossed 


I low lost were my {days till I met wi' my 


Upon the stormy foam, 


Jessie! 


And, though a thousand leagues away. 


The sports o' the city seemed foolish and 


Am anchored here at home." 


vain; 


Then, giving each a kiss, he said, 


I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear 


" I see in dreams at night, 


lassie 


This little anchor on mj left. 


Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower 


This great one on mj right." 


o' Dumblane. 


R. H. Stoddard. 


Though mine were the station o' loftiest 




grandeur, 




Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain. 
And reckon as naething the height o' its 




THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE 


splendor, 
If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower a'' 


The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben 


Dumblane. 


Lomond, 
And left the red clouds to preside o'er 


Robert Taxxahill, 


the scene, 
While lanely I stray in the calm summer 






gloamin'. 




To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' 


THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 


Dumblane. 


I HAVE had playmates, I have had com- 


How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' 


panions. 


blossom. 


In my days of childhood, in my joyful 


And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' 


school -days; 


green ; 


All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 


Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this 
bosom. 


I have been laughing, I have been carous- 


Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' 
Dumblane. 


ing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom 




cronies; 


She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's 


All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 


bonnie, — 
For guileless simplicity marks her its 
ain; 
And far be the villain, divested of feeling, 
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet 


I loved a Love once, fairest among women : 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see 

her, — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 


Flower o' Dumblane. 


I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : 



292 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Like an ingrate, 1 left my friend abniptl v ; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my 
childhood. 

Earth seemed a desert I was bound to tra- 
verse, 

Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a 

brother, 
Whv wert not thou born in my father's 

dwelling.'' 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces. 

How some they have died, and some they 
have left me. 

And some are taken from me; all are de- 
parted ; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

Charles Lamb. 



MARCO BOZZARIS. 

[Marco Bo^zaris, the Epaminondas of modern 
Greece, fell in a nig-ht attack upon the Turkish 
camp at Laspa, the sight of the ancient Plata;a, 
August 20, 1S23, and expired in the moment of vic- 
tory. His last words were; "To die lor liberty 
is a pleasure and not a pain."] 

At midnight, in his guarded tent. 

The Turk was dreaming of the horn- 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent^ 

Should tremble at his power. 
In dreams, trirough camp and court, he 

bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard; 
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a 

king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 
Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. — 

True as the steel of their tried blades, 
Heroes in heart and hand. 



There had the Persian's thousands stood. 
There had the glad earth drunk their 
blood. 

On old Plafsea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike, and soul to dare. 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on, the Turk__awoke: 

That bright dream was his last; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 

"To arms! they come! the Greek.'" the 
Greek!" 
He woke — to die midst flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre stroke. 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike — for your altars and your i res; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 

God, and your native land ! " 

They fought — like brave men, long and 
well; 

They piled that ground with Moslem 
slain : 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell. 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades w 
His sniile when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
Calmly as to a night's repose. 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal chamber, Death, 
Come to the mother, when she feels, 

For the first time, her first-born's breath; 
Come when the blessed seals 

That close the pestilence are broke. 

And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 

Come in consumption's ghastly form. 

The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 

Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
With banquet song and dance and 
wine, — 




THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



295 



And thou art terrible; the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 
Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free 
Thj voice sounds like a prophet's word. 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions vet to be. 
Come when his task of fame is wrought; 
Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought; 

Come in her crowning hour, — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 
Thy summons welcome as the cry 
That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
And orange-groves, and fields of balm. 

Blew o'er the Ilaytian seas. 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee; there is no prouder grave. 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee. 

Nor bade the dark heai-se wave its plume, 
L,ike torn branch from death's leafless tree. 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 

The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
But she remcTiibers thee as one 
Long loved, and for a season gone. 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 
For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
Of thee her babes' flrst lisping tells; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed. 
Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
His plighted maiden, when she fears 
For him, the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 
Though in her eye and faded cheek 



Is read the grief she will not speak. 
The memory of her buried joys, — 
And even she who gave thee birth, — 
Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth. 
Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art freedom's now, and faine's,— 
One of the few, the immortal names 
That were not born to die. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck 



A HAPPY LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's ^^ill; 

Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are; 

Whose soul is still prepared for death. 
Not tied unto the world with care 

Of public fame or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
Or vice; who never understood 

How deepest wounds are given by praise. 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 

Who hath his life from rumors freed; 

Whose conscience is his strong retreat: 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 

Nor ruin make accusers great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of his grace than gifts to lend, 

And entertains the harmless day 
With a well-chosen book or friend, 

This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And, having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir Henry Wotton. 



206 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



yPRlNCi STEPS. 

OxcE more upon the hills my eager feet, 
By Winter's spite too long imprisoned, 

run, 
And 'mid the boscage, waking to the 
sun, 
The happy heralds of the spring-time 

meet. 
The shy arbutus in its masked retreat 

Hides close, but vainly, its bright bloom 

begun. 
For mv hot greed hath ruthless rapine 
done 
On baby blossoms faintly flushed and sweet. 
The odorous pints are burnishing their 
green. 
While dainty larches the infection take. 
And out on the soft air their tassels 
shake. 
As 'shamed to have their barren liveries 
seen. 
So the brown maples and the birches 

white 
Bestir themselves to mend their woful 
plight. 

Not yet the tender feet of bright-eyed May 
The mosF veiled bosses of the woodland 

press ; 
A few bold buds, from Winter's dire 
duress 
In happy freedom sprung, their charms dis 

play; 
While here and there, along my random 
way. 
Like cloudlets dropped, lie shreds of Win- 
ter's dress, 
Torn by the copses in his northward 
stress, 
That chill the venturous violets with dis- 
may. 
Yet by their pallid contrast make more 
plain 
The timid hues that flush the sleeping 

grass. 
And bid its weary swoon of silence pass 
Into the verdurous flow of life again. 



Forever green, both weald and wold 

would lack 
The charms December steals and May 

brings back. 

I stand, this April-waning morn, between 
The tears of Nature and her kindling 

mirth, 
Between the sleep and waking of the 
Earth, 
Whence this grand miracle is soonest seen. 
A silent wonder floods the air serene. 

In happy presage of the Spring's sweet 

birth. 
Not Plenty's horn, poured in the lap of 
Dearth, 
The gladness of whose coming can out- 
mean. 
O tuneful choirs, whose errant spies to-day 
Are piping in the glades their nerald 

notes. 
Tune with your austral music all \our 
throats, 
And come to chant for us the birth of May. 
Till then let April weep impatient tears. 
Whose stress such after-\\ealth of beauty 
bears. 

Profes-sor W. C. Richards. 



PEACE. 

My soul, there is a country 

Afar beyond the stars, 
Where stands a winged sentry. 

All skil-ful in the wars. 

There above noise and danger, 

Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, 

And One born in a manger 
Commands the beauteous files. 

He is thy gracious friend. 

And, (O my soul awake!) 
Did in pure love descend. 

To die here for thy sake. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



297 



I:" thou canst get but thitlier, 

Tliere grows the flower of peace, 

The rose that cannot wither — 
Tliy fortress and thj ease. 

Leave, then, thy foolish ranges; 

P'or none can thee secure, 
But One who never changes — 

Tliy God, thy life, thy cure. 

Hknry Vaughan. 



RECOLLECTIONS. 

Do you remember all the sunny f)laces, 
Where in bright days, long jiast, we 
play'd together? 
Do you remember all the old home faces 
That gather'd round the hearth in wintry 
weather? 
Do you remember all the happy meetings, 
In summer evenings round the open 
door — 
Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and 
tender greetings, 
And clasping hands whose pulses beat no 
more? 

Do vou remember them? 

Do you remember all the merry laughter; 
The voices round the swing in our old 
garaen : 
The dog that, when we ran, still follow'd 
after ; 
The teasing frolic sure of speedy pardon : 
We were but children then, young, happy 
creatures. 
And hardly knew how much we had to 
lose — 
But noxv the di^eamlike memory of those 
features 
Comes back, and bids my darken'd spirit 
muse. 

Do you remember them? 

Do you remember when we first departed 
From all the old companions who were 
round us, 



How very soon again we grew light- 
hearted. 
And talk'd with smiles of all the links 
which bound us? 
And after, when our footsteps w^ere return- 
ing. 
With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain ; 
How our young hearts kept boiling up, and 
burning. 
To think how soon we'd be at home 
again. 

Do you remember this? 

Do you remember how the dreams of glory 
Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure; 
How we thought less of being famed in 
story, 
And more of those to whom our fame 
gave pleasure. 
Do you remember in far countries, weep- 
ing, 
When a ligh.t breeze, a flower, hath 
brought to mind 
Old ht-ppy thoughts, which till that hour 
were sleeping. 
And made us yearn for those we left be- 
hind? 

Do you remember this? 

Do you remember when no sound woke 
gladly, 
But desolate echoes through our home 
were ringing. 
How for a while we talk'd — then paused full 
sadly, 
Because our voices bitter thoughts were 
bringing? 
Ah me! those days — those days! my friend, 
my brother. 
Sit down, and let us talk of all our woe, 
For we have nothing left but one another; — 
Yet where they went, old playmate, -we 
shall go — 

Let us remember this. 

Hon, Mrs. Norton. 



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ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE WORLD. 

'Tis all a great show 

The world that we're in — 
None can tell when 'twas finished, 

None saw it begin ; 
Men wander and gaze through 

Its courts and its halls, 
Like children whose love is 

The picture-hung wall. 

There are flowers in the meadow. 

There are clouds in the sky — 
Songs pour from the woodland, 

The waters glide by ; 
Too many, too many 

For eye or for ear, 
The sights that we see, 

And the sounds that we hear. 

A weight as of slumber 

Comes down on the mind ; 
So swift is life's train 

To its object we're blind ; 
I myself am but one 

In the fleet-gliding show — 
Like others I walk 

But know not where I go. 

One saint to another 

I heard say " How long.'"' 
I listened, but naught more. 

I heard of his song; 
The shadows are walking 

Through city and plain — 
How long shall the night 

And its shadow remain .' 

How long ere shall shine, 

In this glimmer of things, 
The light of which prophet s 

In prophecy sings.'' 
And the gates of that city 

Be open, whose sun 
No more to the west 

Its circuit shall run ! 

Jones Very. 



CENTENNIAL HYMN. 

(Sung at the opening- of the International Exj-osi- 
tion in Philadelphia, May 10, 1S76.) 

Our Father's God, from out whose hand 
The centuries fall like grains of sand. 
We meet to-day, united, free. 
And loyal to our land and Thee, 
To thank Thee for the era done. 
And trust Thee for the opening one. 

Here, where of old, by Thy design, 
The fathers spake that word of Thine, 
Whose echo is the glad refrain 
Of rended bolt and falling chain. 
To grace our festal time, from all 
The zones of earth our guests we call. 

Be with us while the New World greets 
The Old World thronging all its streets. 
Unveiling all the triumphs won 
By art or toil beneath the sun ; 
And unto common good ordain 
The rivalship of hand and brain. 

Thou, Who hast here in concord furled 
The war-flags of a gathered world, 
Beneath our Western skies fulfill 
The Orient's mission of good-will. 
And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, 
Send back the Argonauts of peace. 

For art and labor met in truce. 
For beauty made the bride of use. 
We thank Thee, while, withal, we'crave 
The austere virtues strong to save. 
The honor proof to place or gold. 
The manhood never bought or sold! 

O, make Thou us, through centuries long, 
In peace secure, in justice strong; 
Around our gift of freedom di-aw 
The safeguards of Thy righteous law; 
And, cast in some diviner mold, 
Let the new cycle shame the o'.d ! 

John G. Whittier. 



OF POETR7' AND SONG. 



299 



THE FALLEN LEAVES. 

We stand among the fallen leaves, 

Young children at our play, 
And laugh to see the yellow things 

Go rustling on their way : 
Right merrily we hunt them down, 

The autumn winds and we, 
Nor pause to gaze where snow-drifts lie. 

Or sunbeams gild the tree : 
With dancing feet we leap along 

Where wither'd boughs are strown ; 
Nor past nor future checks our song — 

The present is our own. 

"We stand among the fallen leaves 

In youth's enchanted spring — 
When hope (who wearies at the last) 

First spreads her eagle wing. 
We tread with steps of conscious strength 

Beneath the leafless trees, 
And the color kindles in our cheek 

As blows the winter breeze; 
While, gazing towards the cold grey sky. 

Clouded with snow and rain. 
We wish the old year all past by. 

And the young spring come again. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In manhood's haughty prime^ 
AVhen first our pausing hearts begin 

To love " the olden time;" 
And, as we gaze, we sigh to think 

How many a year hath pass'd 
Since neath those cold and faded trees 

Our footsteps wander'd last; 
And old companions — now perchance 

Estranged, forgot, or dead — 
'Come round us, as those autumn leaves 

Are crush'd beneath our tread. 

We stand among the fallen leaves 

In our oivn autumn day — 
And, tottering on with feeble steps. 

Pursue our cheerless way. 
We look not back — too long ago 

Hath all we loved been lost; 



Nor forward — for we mav not live 
To see our new hope cross'd : 

But on we go— the sun's faint beam 
A feeble warmth imparts — 

Childhood without its jov returns — 
The present fills our hearts! 

Hox. Mrs. Norton. 



SLEEP. 



FROM " SECOND PART OF HENRY IV." 

King Hexry. How many thousand of 
my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep!— O sleep! O gen- 
tle sleep ! 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted 

thee. 
That thou no more wilt weigh mv evelids 

down, 
And steep mv senses in forgetfulness.' 
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky 

cribs. 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee. 
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy 

slumber, 
Than in the perfumed chambers of the 

great. 
Under the conopies of costly state, 
And lulled with sounds of sweetest mel- 
ody.? 
O thou dull god ! why liest thou with the 

vile. 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly 

couch 
A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell.-* 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his 

brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge. 
And in the visitation of the winds. 
Who take the rutlian billows by the top. 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hang- 
ing them 
With deafening clamors in the slippery 

clouds, 
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes.' 



300 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude; 
And in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With allfippliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie 

down ; 
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 

FROM " FIRST PART OF HENRY IV." 

Glendower. She bids you on the wan- 
ton rushes lay you down. 

And rest your gentle head upon her lap. 

And she will sing the song that pleaseth 
vou. 

And on your eyelids crown the god of 
sleep. 

Charming your blood with pleasing heavi- 
ness; 

Making such difference betwixt wake and 
sleep 

As is the difference betwixt day and night, 

The hour before the heavenly-harnessed 
team 

Begins his golden progress in the east. 

FROM " CYMBEI.INE." 

Weariness 
Can snore upon the flint, when restive sloth 
Finds the down pillow hard. 

FROM " MACBETH." 

Macbeth does murder sleep, — the innocent 

sleep, 
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of 

care. 
The death of each day's life, sore labor's 

bath. 
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second 

course. 
Chief nourisher in life's feast. 

FROM " THE TEMPEST." 

We are such stuff" 
As dreams are made of, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep 

Shakespeare. 



L' ALLEGRO. 

Hence, loathed Melanchpl}-, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight 
born. 

In Stygian cave forlorn, 
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and 
sights unholy ! 

Find out some uncouth cell, 
Where brooding Darkness spreads his 

jealous wings, 
And the night-raven sings; 
There under the ebon shapes, and low- 
browed rocks. 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwe... 
But come, thou goddess fair and tVee, 
In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, 
And, by men, heart-easing Mirth; 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, 
With tw'O sister Graces more, 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sager sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring, 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing, — 
As he met her once a-Maying, — 
There, on beds of violets blue 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew^ 
Filled her Avith thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 

Haste, thee, nvmph, and bring with thee 

Jest, and youthful Jollity, — 

Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, 

Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, 

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. 

And love to live in dimple sleek, — 

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 

And Laughter, holding both his sides. 

Come : and trip it, as you go. 

On the light fantastic toe ; 

And in thy right hand lead with thee 

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 

And if I give thee honor due, 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 

To live with her, and live with thee, 

In unreproved pleasures free, — 

To hear the lark begin his flight. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



301 



And singing startle the dull Night, 
From his watcli-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow. 
And at m^' window bid good morrow. 
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine. 
Or the twisted eglantine; 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn door, 
Stoutly struts his dame before; 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerily rouse the slumbering Morn, 
From the side of soine hoar hill 
Through the high wood echoing shrill; 
Sometime walking, not unseen. 
By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green. 
Right against the eastern gate. 
Where the great Sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the plowman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleas- 
ures. 
Whilst the landscape round it measures 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray. 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, — 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest, — 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Sliallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks. 
Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 
Are at their savory dinner set. 
Of herbs, and other country messes. 
Which the neat handed Phillis dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves 



With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 

Or, if the earlier season lead. 

To the tanned haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 

The upland hamlets will invite. 

When the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 

To many a youth and many a maid, 

Dancing in the checkered shade ; 

And young and old come forth to play 

On a sunshine holiday. 

Till the livelong daylight fail ; 

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale 

With stories told of many a feat: 

How fairy Mab the junkets eat, — 

She was pinched and pulled, she said. 

And he, by friar's lantern led ; 

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 

To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 

When in one night, ere glimjise of morn, 

His shadowy flail hatii thrashed the corn 

That ten day-laborers could not end; 

Then lies him down the lubber fiend. 

And, stretched out ail the chimney's length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength. 

And, crop-full, out of doors he flings 

Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 

By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then. 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold 

In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, — 

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 

Of wit or arms, while both contend 

To win lier grace whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 

In saffron robe, with taper clear, 

And pomp and feast and revelry. 

With masque, and antique pageantry,^ 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eves by haunted stream ; 

Then to the well-trod stage anon. 

If Jonson's learned sock be on. 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 

Warble his native wood-notes wild. 



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ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Ljdian airs, 
Married to immortal verse, — 
Such as tlie meeting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning 
The melting voice through mazes run- 
ning, 
Untwisted all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony, — 
The Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurvdice. 

These delights if thou canst give. 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton. 



"THE SAVIOUR ONCE LAY SLEEP- 
ING." 

Sung at the funeral of Mary McVicar Booth to the 
music of Schubert's 'Adieu." 

The Savior once lay sleeping 

In death's mysterious gloom, 
The loving ones stood weeping 

Around his silent tomb. 
But oh! what morn of gladness 

Dawned on that tearful night! 
On hearts bowed down in sadness, 

There shone immortal light. 

Adieu! 'tis life's last greeting; 

Tlie parting hour has come. 
And fast my soul is fleeting. 

To seek its starry home! 
Yet dare I mourn when Heaven 

Has bid thy soul be free, 
A life of bliss has given 

Forevermore to thee! 



Adieu ! go thou before me, 

To join the seraph song; 
A secret sense comes o'er me, 

I tarry here not long. 
Adieu! thei-e comes a morrow 

To every day of pain ; 
On earth we part in sorrow, 

To meet in bliss again. 



Anonymous. 



TELL AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once 

again ! 
I hold to you the hands you first beheld. 
To show they still are free. Methinks I 

hear 
A spirit in your echoes answer me. 
And bid your tenant welcome to his home 
Again! O sacred forms, how proud vou 

look! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
How huge you are! how mighty and how 

free ! 
How do you look, for all your bared brows. 
More gorgeously majestical than kings 
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine! 
Ye are the things that tower, that shine, 

whose smile 
Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose 

forms. 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe di\ine, whose subject never kneels 
In mockery, because it is your boast 
To keep him free! Ye guards of liberty, 
I'm with you once again ! — I call to you 
With all my voice! I hold my hands to 

you 
To show they still are free! I rush to you 
As though I could embrace you! 

James Sheridan Knowles. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



303 



ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS 
AIN DRAP O' DEW. 

Confide ye aye in Providence, for Provi- 
dence is kind, 

And bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm and 
tranquil mind; 

Though pressed and hemmed on every side, 
hae faith and ye'll win through. 

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' 
dew. 

Gin reft frae friends or crossed in love, as 

whiles nae doubt j'e've been. 
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or 

tears flow frae your een, 
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good 

in store for you, 
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' 

dew. 

In the lang, lang days o' simmer, when the 

clear and cloudless sky 
Refuses ae wee draps o' rain to nature 

parched and dry, 
The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars 

verdure spring anew, 
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' 

dew. 

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should 

feel owre proud and hie, 
And in our pride tbrget to wipe the tear frae 

poorlith's ee, 
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we 

ken na whence or how. 
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' 

dew. 

James Ballantixe. 



HESTER. 



When maidens such as Hester die. 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavor. 



A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the w'ormy bed 
And her, together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 
A rising step, did indicate 
Of pride and ]oy no common rate. 
That flushed her spirit: 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call : — if 't was not pride 
It was a joy to that allied, 
She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was trained in nature's school- 
Nature had blessed her. 

A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind — 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore! 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
Some suminer morning. 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon' the day — 
A bliss that would not go away — 
A sweet fore-warning? 

Charles Lamb. 



BE PATIENT. 

Be patient! oh, be patient! Put vour ear 

against the earth; 
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' 

the seed has birth — 
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its 

little way, 
Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, 

and the blade stands up in the day. 



304 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Be patient! oh, be patient! Tiie germs of 

mighty thought 
Must have their silent undergrowth, must 

underground be wrought; 
But as sure as there's a power that makes 

tlie grass appear, 
Our land shall be green with liberty, the 

blade-time shall be here. 

Be patient! oh, be patient! — go and watch 

the wheat ears grow — 
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor 

change nor throe — 
Day after day, day after daj-, till the ear is 

fully grown, 
And then again, day after day, till tlie 

ripened field is brown. 

Be patient! oh, be patient! — though yet our 
hopes are green. 

The harvest fields of freedom shall be 
crowned with sunny sheen. 

Be ripenmg! be ripening! mature your si- 
lent way. 

Till the whole broad land is tongued with 
fire on freedom's harvest day ! 

Anonymous. 



THE NEW JERUSx\LEM. 

AN ANCIENT HYMN. 

O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, 

When shall I come to thee.' 
When shall my sorrows have an end- 

Thy joys when shall I see.' 
O happy harbor of God's saints! 

O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
In thee no sorrows can be found — 

No grief, no care, no toil. 

In thee no sickness is at all, 

No hurt, nor anv sore; 
There is no death nor ugly night, 

But life for evermore. 



No dimming cloud o'ershadows thee, 
No cloud nor darksome night. 

But every soul shines as the sun — 
For God himself gives light. 

There lust and lucre cannot dwell. 

There envy bears no sway ; 
There is no hunger, thirst, nor heat, 

But pleasures every way. 
Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Would God I were in thee! 
Oh! that my sorrows had an end. 

Thy joys that I might see! 

No pains, no pangs, no grieving grief, 

No woeful night is there; 
No sigh, no sob, no cry is heard — 

No well-away, no fear. 
Jerusalem the city is 

Of God our king alone; 
The lamb of God, the light thereof, 

Sits there upon His throne. 

O God ! that I Jerusalem 

With speed may go behold ! 
For why.' the pleasures there abound 

Which here cannot be told. 
Thy turrets and thy pinnacles 

With carbuncles do shine — 
With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, 

Surpassing pure and fine. 

Thy houses are of ivory. 

Thy windows crystal clear. 
Thy streets are laid with beaten gold — 

There angels do appear. 
Thy walls are made of precious stone, 

Thy bulwarks diamond square. 
Thy gates are made of orient pearl — 

O God ! if I were there ! 

Within thy gates nothing can come 

That is not passing clean : 
No spider's web, no dirt, nor dust, 

No filth may there be seen. 
Jehovah, Lord, now come away. 

And end my griefs and plaints — 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



305 



Take me to Thy Jerusalem, 
And place me with Thy saints! 

Who tliere are crowned with glory great, 

And see God face to face, 
They triuinpii still, and aye rejoice — 

Most happy is their case. 
But we that are in banishment, 

Continually do moan; 
We sigh, we mourn, we sob, we weep — 

Perpetually we groan. 

Our sweetness mixed is with gall, 

Our pleasures are but pain. 
Our joys not worth tlie looking on — 

Our sorrows aye remain. 
But there they live in such delight. 

Such pleasure and such play. 
That unto them a thousand years 

Seems but as yesterday. 

O my sweet home, Jerusalem! 

Thy joys when shall I see — 
The king sitting upon His throne, 

And thy felicity.? 
Thy vineyards, and thy orchards. 

So wonderfully rare. 
Are furnished with all kinds of fruit. 

Most beautifully fair. 

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks, 

Continually are green ; 
There grow such sweet and pleasant flow- 
ers 

As nowhere else are seen. 
There cinnamon and sugar grow. 

There nard and balm abound; 
No tongue can tell, no heart can think. 

The pleasures there are found. 

There nectar and ambrosia spring — 

There music's ever sweet; 
There many a fair and dainty ihiirj 

Are trod down under feet. 
Quit J through the streets, with pleasant 
sound. 

The flood of life doth flow; 



Upon the banks, on every side, 
The trees of life do grow. 

These trees each month yield ripened 
fruit — 

For evermore they spring; 
And all the nations of the world 

To Thee their honors bring. 
Jerusalem, God's dwelling-place 

Full sore I long to see; 
Oh! that my sorrows had an end. 

That I might dwell in thee! 

There David stands, with harp in hand. 

As master of the choir ; 
A thousand times that man were blest 

That might his music hear. 
There Mary sings " Magnificat," 

With tunes surpassing sweet; 
And all the virgins bear their part, 

Singing about her feet. 

" Te Deum " doth .St. Ambrose sing, 

St. Austin doth the like; 
Old Simeon and Zacharie 

Have not their songs to seek. 
There Magdalene hath left her moan, 

And cheerfully doth sing, 
With all blest saints whose harmony 

Through every street doth ring. 

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 

Thy joys fain would I see; 
Come quickly, Lord, and end my grief, 

And take me home to Thee; 
Oh! paint Thy name on my foreliead, 

And take me hence away. 
That I may dwell with Thee in bliss, 

And sing Thy praises aye. 

Jerusalem, the happy home — 

Jehovah's throne on high! 
O sacred city, queen, and wife 

Of Christ eternally! 
O comely queen with glory clad, 

With honor and degi ee. 



80G 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



All fair thou art, exceeding bright — 


There love and charity do reign. 


No spot there is in thee ! 


And Christ is all in all. 




Whom they most perfectly behold 


I long to see Jeruselem, 


In joj' celestial. 


The comfort of us all; 


They love, they praise — they praise, they 


For thou art fair and beautiful — 


love ; 


None ill can thee befall. 


They " Holy , holy," cry ; 


In thee, Jerusalem, I say, 


They neither toil, nor faint, nor end, 


No darkness dare appear — 


But laud continually. 


No night, no shade, no winter foul — 




No time doth alter there. / 


Oh! happy thousand times were I, 


No candle needs, no moon to shine, 
No glittering star to light; 

For Christ, the king of righteousness. 
For ever shineth bright. 

A lamb unspotted, white and pure, 
To thee doth stand in lieu 

Of light — so great the glory is 


If, after wretched days, 
I might with listening ears conceive 

Those heavenly songs of praise. 
Which to the eternal king are sung 

By happy wights above — 
By saved souls and angels sweet, 

Who love the God of love. 


Thine heavenly king to view. 






Oh ! passing happy were my state. 


He is the King of kings, beset 
In midst His servants' sight; 


Might I be worthy found 
To wait upon my God and king, 


And thej, His happy household ail. 
Do serve Him day and night. 

There, there the choir of angels sing — 
There the supernal sort 

Of citizens, which hence are rid 


His praises there to sound; 
And to enjoy my Christ above, 

His favor and His grace. 
According to His promise made, 

Which here I interlace: 


From dangers deep, do sport. 






" O Father dear," quoth he, "let thtMii 


There be the prudent prophets all. 


Which thou has put of old 


The apostles six and six. 


To me, be there where lo! I am — 


The glorious martyrs in a row, 
And confessors betwixt. 


Thy glory to behold ; 
Which I with Thee, before the world 


There doth the crew of righteous men 


Was made in perfect wise. 


And matrons all consist — 


Have had — from whence the fountain 


Young men and maids that here on earth 


great 


Their pleasiu-es did resist. 


Of glory doth arise." 


The sheep and lambs, that hardly 'scaped 
The snare of death and hell. 


Again : " If any man will serve 
Thee, let him follow me; 


Triumph in joy eternally, 


For where I am, he there, right sure. 


Whereof no tongue can tell; 


Then shall my servant be." 


And though the glory of each one 


And still: " If anj- man loves me. 


Doth difl'er in degree. 


Him loves my father dear. 


Yet is the joy of all alike 


Whom I do love — to him myself 


And common as we see. 


In glory will appear." 



OF POETR7 


• AND SONG. 307 


Lord, take away my misen', 


Why doth the violet spring 


That then I may be bold 


Unseen by human eye .'' 


With Thee, \\\ Thy Jerusalem, 


Why do the radiant seasons bring 


Thy glory to behold ; 


Sweet thoughts that quickly fly .'' 


And so in Zion see my king. 


Why do our fond hearts cling 


My love, my Lord, my all — 


To things that die .'' 


Where now as in a glass T see. 




There face to face I shall. 


We toil — through pain and wrong; 




We fight— and fly ; 


Oh ! blessed are the pure in heart — 


We love; we lose; and then, ere long, 


Their Sovereign they shall see; 


Stone-dead we lie. 


O ye most happy, heavenly wights. 


O life ! is all thy song 


Which of God's household be! 


" Endure and — die "i " 


O Lord, with speed dissolve my bands. 




These gins and fetters strong; 


Bryan W. Procter (Barry Cornwall.) 


Por I have dwelt within the tents 




Of Kedar over long. 

Yet, search me, Lord, and find me out! 
Fetch me Thy fold unto. 




THE NEW YEAR. 


Tliat all Thy angels may rejoice. 

While all Thy will I do. 
O mother dear, Jerusalem ! 

When shall I come to Thee? 
When shall my sorrows have an end. 

Thy joys when shall I see .'' 


A FLOWER unblown; a book unread; 
A tree with fruit unharvested; 
A path untrod ; a house whose rooms 
Lack yet the heart's divine perfumes: 
A landscape whose wide border lies 
In silent shade 'neath silent skies; 




A wondrous fountain yet unsealed ; 


Yet once again I pray Thee, Lord, 


A casket with its gifts concealed ; 


To quit me from all strife. 


This is the year that for you waits. 


That to Thy hill I may attain. 
And dwell there all my life — 


Beyond to-morrow's mystic gates. 


With cherubim and seraphim 




And holy souls of men, 


Oh, may this flower unfold to you 


To sing Thy praise, O God of Hosts! 


Visions of beauty sweet and new; 


Forever and amen ! 


This book on golden pages trace 




Your sacred joys and deeds of grace. 


Anonymous. 


May all the fruit of this strange tree 




Luscious and rosy-tinted be; 

This path through fields of knowledge go; 






This house with love's content o'erflow; 


LIFE. 


This landscape glitter with the dew 


We are born; we laugh; we weep; 

We love; we droop; we die ! 
Ah 1 wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 

Why do we live or die } 
Who knows that secret deep } 


Of blessed hopes and friendships true, 
This fountain's living crystal cheer. 
As fall the springs that once were dear; 
This casket with such gems be stored 
As shine in lives that love the Lord. 


Alas, not J J 


Horatio Nelson Powers. 



308 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 

And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 

Apparelled in magnificent attire, 

With retinue of many a knight and squire, 

On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 

And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. 

And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 

Repeated like a burden or refrain. 

He caught the words, '■'■Defosuit ^otentes 

De sede, et exaltavit humilesf 

And slowly lifting up his kingly head, 

He to a learned clerk beside him said, 

" What mean these words.' " the clerk made 

answer meet, 
*' He has put down the mighty from their 

seat. 
And has exalted them of low degree." 
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
" 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung 
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; 
For unto priests and people be it known. 
There is no power can push me from my 

throne ! " 
And leaning back, he yawned and fell 

asleep, 
i-ulleu by the chant monotonous and deep. 

When he awoke, it was already night; 
The church was empty, and there was no 

light, 
Save where the lamps, that glimmering, 

few and faint. 
Lighted a little space before some saint. 
He started from his seat and gazed around, 
But saw no living thing and heard no sound. 
He groped towards the door, but it was 

locked ; 
He cried aloud, and listened, and then 

knocked, 
And uttered awful threatenings and com- 
plaints, 
And imprecations upon men and saints. 
The sounds re-echoed from the roof and 

walls 
As if dead priests were laughing in their 

stalls. 



At length the sexton, hearing from without 
The tumult of the knocking and the shout, 
And thinking thieves were in the house of 

prayer. 
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is 

there.?" 
Half choked with rage. King Robert fierce- 
ly said, 
" Open : 'tis I, the king! Art thou afraid.? " 
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a 

curse, 
" This is some drunken vagabond or 

worse ! " 
Turned the great key and flung the portal 

wide; 
A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak. 
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor 

spoke. 
But leaped into the blackness of the night,, 
And vanished like a spectre from his sight, 

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Despoiled of his magnificent attire, 
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with 

mire. 
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,. 
Strode on and tliundered at the palace gate;, 
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting 

in his rage 
To right and left each seneschal and page. 
And hurried up the broad and sounding; 

stair. 
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
From hall to hall he passed with breathless 

speed ; 
Voices and cries he heard, but did not 

heed, 
Until at last he reached the banquet room, 
Blazing with light, and breathing with per- 
fume. 
There on the dias sat another king. 
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet- 
ring. 
King Robert's self in features, form, and 

height. 
But all transfigured with angelic lightl 



OF rOETRT AND SONG. 



309 



It was an angel ; and his presence there 
With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
Though none the hidden angel recognize. 

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. 
The throneless monarch on the angel gazed. 
Who met his looks of anger and surprise 
With the divine compassion of his eyes; 
Then said, " Who art thou? and why com'st 

thou here? " 
To which King Robert answered with a 

sneer, 
" I am the king, and come to claim my own 
From an impostor, who usurps my throne ?" 
And suddenly, at these audacious words. 
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their 

swords ; 
The angel answered, with vmruffled brow, 
"Nay, not the king, but the king's jester; 

thou 
Henceforth shall wear the bells and scallop- 
ed cape, 
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape : 
Thou shalt obey my servants when they 

call. 
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " 

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and 

prayers, ^ 

They thrust him from the hall and down 

the stairs; 
A group of tittering pages ran before. 
And as they opened wide the folding-door, 
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange 

alarms. 
The boisterouslaughter of the men-at-arms. 
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
With the mock plaudits of " Long live the 

king! " 
Next morning, waking with the day's first 

beam. 
He said within himself, " It was a dream !" 
But the straw rustled as he turned his head. 
There were the cape and bells beside his bed ; 
Around him rose the bare, discolored walls. 
Close by, the steeds were champing in their 

stalls, 



And in the corner, a revolting shape. 
Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched 

ape. 
It was no dream ; the world he loved so 

much 
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 

Days came and went; and now returned 

again 
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 
Under the angel's governance benign 
The happy island danced with corn and 

wine. 
And deep within the mountain's burning 

breast 
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 

MeauAvhiie King Robert yielded to his fate, 
Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
Dressed in the motley grab that jesters wear 
With looks bewildered and a vacant stare. 
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are 

shorn. 
By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to 

scorn, 
His only friend the ape, his only food 
What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
And when the angel met him on his way 
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say. 
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
" Art thou the king?" the passion of his 

woe 
Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
And lifting high his forehead, he would 

fling 
The haughty answer back, " I am, I am 

the king ! " 

Almost three years were ended ; when there 

canie 
Ambassadors of great repute and name 
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 
By letter summoned them forthwith to 

come 
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
The angel with great joy received his guests, 



310 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And gave them presents of embroidered 

vests, 
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined, 
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
Into the lovely land of Italy, 
Whose loveliness was more resplendent 

made 
By the mere passing of that cavalcade. 
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, 

and the stir 
Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur 

And lo! among the menials, in mock state, 
Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gate, 
His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind. 
The solemn ape demurely perched behind. 
King Robert rode, making huge merri- 
ment 
In all the country towns through which 
they went. 

The pope received them with great pomp, 

and blare 
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's 

square. 
Giving his benediction and embrace. 
Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
While with congratulations and with prayers 
He entertained the angel unawares, 
Robert, the jester, bursting through the 

crowd. 
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud : 
■" I am the king! Look and behold in me 
Robert, your brother, king of Sicily ! 
This man, who wears my semblance to 

your eves. 
Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 
Do you not know me.'' does no voice within 
Answer my cry, and say we are akin.'' " 
The pope in silence, but with troubled mien. 
Gazed at the angel's countenance serene; 
The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange 

sport 
To keep a madman for thy fool at court!" 
And the poor, baffled jester in disgrace 
Was hustled back among the populace. 



In solemn state the holy week went by. 
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; 
The presence of an angel, with its light. 
Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 
And with new fervor filled the hearts of 

men. 
Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 
Even the jester, on his bed of straw. 
With haggard eyes the imwonted splendor 

saw; 
He felt within a power unfelt before, 
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber 

floor. 
He heard the rushing garments of the 

Lord 
Sweep through the silent air, ascending 

heavenward. 

And now the visit ending, and once more 
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, 
Homeward the angel journeyed, and again 
The land was made resplendent with his 

train. 
Flashing along the towns of Italy 
Under Salerno, and from there by sea. 
And when once more within Palermo's 

walls. 
And seated upon his throne in his great 

hall. 
He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 
As if the better world conversed with ours, 
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher 
And with a gesture bade the rest retire. 
And when they were alone, the angel said 
"Art thou the king.'"' Then bowing down 

his head. 
King Robert crossed both hands upon his 

breast. 
And meekly answered him: "Thou know- 

est best! 
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, 
And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
Across those stones that pave the way to 

heaven 
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is 

shriven!" 
The angel smiled, and from his radiant face 
A holy light illumined all the place. 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 31? 


And through the open windows, loud and 


WEARY. 


clear, 




They heard the monks chant in the chapel 


I WOULD have gone ; God bade me stay ; 


near, 


I would have worked ; God bade me rest, 


Above the stir and tumult of the street: 


He broke my will from day to day; 


" He has put down the mighty from their 


He read my yearnings unexpressed. 


seat. 


And said me nay 1 


And has exalted them of low degree!" 




And through the chant a second melody 


Now, I would stay; God bids me go; 


Rose like the throbbing of a single string: 


Now I would rest; God bids me work. 


" I am an angel, and thou art the king!" 


He breaks my heart tossed too and fro; 




My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk 


King Robert, who was standing near the 


And vex it so ! 


throne, 




Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! 

But all apparelled as in days old. 

With ermined mantle and with cloth of 

gold; 
And when his courtiers came they found 

him there 


I go Lord where thou sendest me; 

Day after day I plod and moil ; 
But Christ, my Lord, when will it be 


That I mav let alone my toil. 
And rest in Thee .' 


Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent 


Christina Rossetti. 


prayer. 




Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 






MARY STOOD THE CROSS BE- 
SIDE. 




MUSIC. 


Jews were wrought to cruel madness, 




Christians fled in fear and sadness. 


"Wonderful! Music in the house, music in the 
heart, and music also in heaven." 

The Pilgrim's Progress. 


Mary stood the cross beside; 
At its foot, her foot she planted. 




By the dreadful scene undaunted. 


Music in the house 


Till the gentle suflferer died. 


Gushings low and sweet. 


Poets oft have sung her story. 


Eyes with patience soft. 


Painters deck'd her brow with glory. 


Willing hands and feet. 


Priests her name have deified. 


Music in the heart. 


But no worship, song or story 


Battle songs of faith, 


Touches like the simple story. 


Paeans over life. 


" Mary stood the cross beside ! " 


Paeans over death. 


And when under fierce oppression 




Goodness suffersjike transgression, 


Music up in heaven. 


Christ again is crucified. 


Floating from above. 


But if love be there true-hearted, 


Filling house and heart 


By no grief or terror parted. 


With the heaven of Love. 


Mary stands the cross beside. 


Wade Robinson. 


Anonymous. 



313 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


THE FALLOW FIELD. 


And calm as yours is my sweet repose, 




Wrapped in the warmth of the winter 


The sun comes up and the sun goes down : 


snows. 


The night mist shroudeth the sleeping 




town : 


For little our loving mother cares 


But if it be dark or if it be day, 


Which the corn or the daisy bears. 


If the tempest beat or the breezes play, 


Which is rich with the ripening wheat, 


Still here on this upland slope I lie, 


Which with the violet's breath is sweet. 


Looking up to the changeful sky. 


Which is red with the clover bloom. 




Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes 


Naught am I but a fallow field ; 


room. 


Never a crop my acres yield. 




Over the wall at my right hand 


Useless under the summer sky 


Stately and green the corn blades stand 


Year after year men say I lie, 


And I hear at my left the flying feet 


Little they know what strength of mine 


Of the winds that rustle the bending 


I give to the trailing blackberry vine; 


wheat. 


Little they know how the wild grape 




grows. 


Often while j'et the morn is red ' 


Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. 


I list for our master's eager tread. 




He smiles at the young corn's towering 


Little they think of the cups I fill 


height, 


For the mosses creeping under the hill; 


He knows the wheat is a goodly sight, 


Little they think of the feast I spread 


But glances not at the fallow field 


For the wild wee creatures that must be 


Whose idle acres no wealth may yield. 


fed; 




Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, 


Sometimes the shout of the harvesters 


And the creeping things that no eye can see. 


The sleeping pulse of my being stirs. 
And as one in a dream I seem to feel 


Lord of the harvest, Thou dost know 


The sweep and the rush of the swinging 


How the summers and winters go. 


steel, 


Never a ship sails east or west 


Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain 


Laden with treasures at my behest. 


As they heap their wains with the golden 


Yet my being thrills to the voice of God 


grain. 


When I give my gold to the golden-rod. 




Julia C. R. Dorr. 


Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud, 




Though on every tongue your praise is 




loud. 


LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL. 


Our mother Nature is kind to me. 




And I am beloved by bird and bee, 


Life is beautiful ! Its duties 


And never a child that passes by 


Cluster round us day by day, 


But turns upon me a grateful eye. 


And their sweet and solemn voices. 




Warn to watch and work and pray. 


Over my head the skies are blue: 

I have my share of the rain and dew; 

I bask like you in the summer sun 

When the long bright days pass, one by 


Only they its blessings forfeit 
Who by sin their spirits cheat 
And to slothful stupor yielding 
Let the rust their armor eat. 


one, 


Anonymous, 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



313 



COMING THROUGH THE RYE. 
Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' through the rye. 
Gin a bod_v kiss a body, 

Need a body cry? 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I ; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a sivain 

I dearly Id'e viysel '/ 
But v.'haur his haiiie, or -what his naine, 

I dinna care to tell. 
Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town, 
Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown.-* 
Every lassie has her laddie — 

Ne'er a ane hae I; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 

When comin' through the rye. 
Amaiig the train there is a szvain 

/ dearly Ide mysel '/ 
But ivhaiir his hame, or -what his name, 

I dinna care to tell. 

Anonymous. 



FAIRY SONG. 

Shed no tear! oh shed no tear! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more ! oh weep no more ! 
Young buds sleep in the root's white core, 
Dry your eyes! oh dry your eyes! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies — 

Shed no tear. 
Overhead ! look overhead ! 
'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
Look up! look up! I flutter now 
On this fresh pomegranate bough 
See me! 't is this silvery bill 
Ever cures the good man's ill. 
Shed no tear! oh shed no tear! 
The flower will bloom another year. 
Adieu, adieu — I fly — adieu ! 
I vanish in the heaven's blue — 

Adieu, adieu! 
John Keats, 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed. 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thrill is o 'er. 
And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells; 
The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 
Thus freedom now so seldom wakes. 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks 

To show that still she lives. 

Thomas Moore. 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A 
MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort. 

Give ear unto my song; 
And if you find it wond'rous short 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man. 
Of whom the world might say 

That still a godly race he ran 
When e'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad. 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 



314 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wandering neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye : 
And while they swore the dog was mad 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That showed the rogues they lied : 

The man recovered of the bite, 
The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



•'PROUD MAISIE IS IN THE WOOD." 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet robin sits on the bush 

Singing so rarely. 

"Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
^ When shall I marry me.^" 
— " When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carry j'e." 

"Who makes the bridal bed. 

Birdie, say truly .'' " 
— "The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 
Shall light thee steady; 

The owl from the steeple sing- 
Welcome, proud lady ! " 

Sir Walter Scott. 



THE WISHING-WELL. 

What! you are come, despite your boast 

You are not superstitious? 
No faith in fairies, nor in ghosts. 

Nor Wishing- Well.'' Delicious 

I know you better, and I hide 

Within the hollow oak; 
To the clear spring your wish confide — 

Nor spring, nor I, will joke. 



I see you've culled the small blue flower 

I told you of last night; 
You come, too, at the sunset hour, 

Determined to be right. 

You fix your eyes upon the ground. 
Are counting nine times nine; 

My mysteries your thoughts have bound—. 
Approach, sweet Geraldine. 

There, now upon the steps you stand. 

You gaze upon the wave. 
The flowers poised within your hand, 

Why, Geraldine, how grave! 

You lightly laughed at all I said 

About the mystic spell. 
And thrice you shook your pretty head 

Against the Wishing-Well. 

Some stronger faith enthrals you now,. 
Your mirth owns some eclipse; 

A shade of thought is on your brow,. 
No smile upon your lips. 

Your face reflected there you trace;. 

And, by some fancy's freak, 
As you gaze down upon your face 

The waters seem to speak. 

" Hail ! fairest form of womanhood 

That we have ever pressed 
On summer eve, amid the wood. 

Upon our peaceful breast. 

" For many a maid has lingered here. 

And all her secrets told. 
And troubled us with lying tear. 

While wishing but for gold. 

"And gallant youths from town and hall 

Have given us their trust : 
But, ah! their love was hollow all. 

Another name for lust. 

" We grant no wish that is not pure. 
No hope for selfish gain; 

We love no love that can 't endure- 
No pleasure void of pain. 

" And now thrice welcome we bid you;. 

We know the sacred sign 
That inarks a maiden pure and true,. 

As you are Geraldine ! 




THii WISHING WULL. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



317 



■" So drop the flower from your hand, 

We hold it fondly given ; 
Pause but one moment on the strand, 

And breathe your wish to Heaven." 

The flower falls! the Well receives 

Your gift — and, also, mine; 
"No withered buds; no Autumn leaves — 

Bright blossoms, Geraldine. 

I hold your hand — to hold your heart 

Soon in the marriage spell ; 
And thus we vow no more to part. 

Beside the Wishing- Well ! 

Charles Laurence Young. 



BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
Clear in the cool September morn. 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde; 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains, winding down. 
Horse and foot into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars. 
Forty flags with their crimson bars. 

Flapped in the morning wind; the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town. 

She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 

In her attic-window the staff she set. 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 



Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 

" Halt! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
" Fire! " — out blazed the rifle-blast 

It shivered the window, pane and sash, 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill. 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

" Shoot, if you must, this old grey head. 
But spare your country's flag," she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word : 

" Who touches a hair of yon grey head 
Dies like a dog! March on! " he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet- 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it w^ell ; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 

And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. 
Flag of freedom and union, wave! 

Peace, and order, and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town! 

John Greenleaf Whittier- 



318 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



A DOUBTING HEART. 

Where are the swallows fled? 

Frozen and dead 
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy 
shore 
O doubting heart! 
Far over purple seas, 
They wait, in sunny ease, 
The balmy southern breeze 
To bring them to their northern homes 
once more. 

Why must the flowers die.^ 
Prisoned they lie 
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
O doubting heart! 
They only sleep below 
The soft white ermine snow 
While winter winds shall blow. 
To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 

The sun has hid its rays 

These many days; 
Will dreary hours never leave the earth.' 
O doubting heart! 
The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky 
That soon, for spring is nigh. 
Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth. 

Fair hope is dead, and light 

Is quenched in night; 
What sound can break the silence of despair.' 
O doubting heart! 
The sky is overcast. 
Yet stars shall rise at last. 
Brighter for darkness past. 
And angels' silver voices stir the air. 

Adelaide Axne Procter. 



"WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING." 

When the hounds of spring are on winter's 
traces. 

The mother of months in meadow or plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; 



And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
Is half assauged for Itylus, 
For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces ; 
The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. 

Come with bows bent and with emptying 
of quivers. 
Maiden most perfect, lady of light. 
With a noise of winds and many rivers. 

With a clamor of waters, and with might ; 
Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet. 
Over the splendor and speed of thy feet! 
For the faint east quickens, the wan west 
shivers. 
Round the feet of the day and the feet o£ 
the night. 

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing 
to her. 
Fold our hands round her knees and 
cling.' 
Oh that man's heart were as fire and could 
spring to her, 
Fire, or the strength of the streams Uiat 
spring! 
For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; 
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her. 
And the south-west wind and the west 
wind sing. 

For winter's rains and ruins are over. 

And all the season of snows and sins; 
The days dividing lover and lo\'er, 

The light that loses, the night that wins; 
And time remembered is grief forgotten. 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 
And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, 
Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, 
The faint fresh flame of the young year 
flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 
And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 
And the oa^ is heard above the lyre. 
And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



319 



And Pan b_v noon and Bacchus by night, 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
Follows with dancing and fills with delight 

The Maenad and Bassarid; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide. 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; 

The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 

The wild vine slips with the weight of its 
leaves, 

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here; 
My heart 's in the Highlands a-cl^asing the 

deer. 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the 

North, 
The birth-place of valor, the country of 

■w orth ; 
Wherever 1 wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands forever I love. 
Farewell to the mountains high covered 

with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys 

below ; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging 

woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring 

floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here, 
My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the 

deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the 

roe, 
My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go- 
Robert Burns. 



THE HUNTER'S SONG. 

Rise! Sleep no more! 'T is a noble morn. 
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn. 
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten 

hound, 
Under the steaming, steaming ground. 
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by, 
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky ! 
Our horses are ready and steady. — So, ho! 
I 'm gone, like a dart from a Tartar's bow. 
Hark, hark! — Who callcth the maiden Morn 
From her sleep in the -woods and the stubble 

corn f 

The horn, — the horn! 
The merry, szveet rinff of the hiinter''s horn. 

Now, through the copse where the fox is 

found. 
And over the stream at a mighty bound. 
And over the high lands and over the low. 
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go! 
Away !— as a hawk flies full at his prey, 
So flieth the hunter, away, — awaj-! 
From the burst at the cover till set of sun, 
When the red fox dies, and — the day is done. 
Hark, hark! — What sound on the rvind is 

borne? 
' T is the conquering voice of the hunter's horn : 

The horn, — the horn! 
TJie merry, bold voice of the hunter'' s horn. 
Sound! Sound the horn! To the hunter 

good 
What 's the gully deep or the roaring flood.? 
Right over he bounds, as the Mild stag 

bounds. 
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent, 

hounds, 
Oh, what delight can a mortal lack. 
When once he is firm on his horse's back. 
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle 

strong. 
And the blast of the horn for his morning 

song? 
Hark, hark! — Noiv, home! and dream till 

morn 
Oj tJie bold, sweet sound of the hunter's liorn! 

The horn, — the horn ! 
Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's 

horn ! 

Barry Cornwall. 



r 



320 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



AN EVENING IN SPRING 

Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea, 
That heavenliest hour of heaven is wor- 
thiest thee! 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour, 
The time, the clime, the spot, where I 
so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant 
tower 
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred 
with prayer. 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of lo\e! 
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and thy Son's above! 
Ave Maria ! O that face so fair 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Al- 
mighty dove, — 
What though 't is but a pictured image — 

strike, — 
That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 

Sweet hour of twilight! in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial 
wood, 
Rooted where once the Adrian wave 
flowed o'er. 
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 
Evergreen forest; which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to 

me. 
How have I loved the twilight hour and 
thee ! 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
Making their summer lives one ceaseless 

song. 
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and 

mine, 



And vesper-bells that rose the boughs 
along; 
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the 
fair throng. 
Which learned from this example not to 

fly 

From a true lover, — shadowed my mind's 
eye. 

O Hesperus! thou bringest all good things — 
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 

To the young bird the parent's brooding- 
wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlaboured 
steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone 
clings, 

Whate'er our household gods protect of 
dear. 

Are gathered round us by thy look of rest: 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's 
breast. 

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts 
the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first 
day 
When they from their sweet friends are 
torn apart; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way^ 
(As the far bell of vesper makes him start. 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay); 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns.' 
Ah! surely nothing dies but something 
mourns. Lord Byron. 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun! 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the 

thatcheaves run — 

To bend with apples and mossed cottage 

trees, 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



323 



And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core — 
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel 

shells 
With a sweet kernel — to set budding, 

more 
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until thev think warm days will never 

cease. 
For summer has o'er-brimmed their 

clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store.' 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
f^nd 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
wind ; 
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep. 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while 
thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twin- 
ed flowers; 
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours 
by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring.' Ay^ 
where are they .' 
Think not of them — thou hast thy music 
too: 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying 
day. 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy 
hue; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats 
mourn 
Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
Or sinking, as the light wind lives or 
dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
hilly bourn ; 
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble 
soft 
The red-breast whistl^". from the garden 
croft, 
And gathering swallows twitter in the 
skies. 

John Keats. 



AUTUMN— A DIRGE. 

The w^arm sun is failing; the bleak wind 

is wailing; 
The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flow- 
ers are dying; 

And the Year 
On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of 
leaves dead, 

Is lying, 
Come, months, come away, 
From November to May ; 
In your saddest array 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And like dim shadows watch by her sepul- 
chre. 

The chill rain is falling; the nipt worm is 

crawling; 
The rivers are swelling; the thunder is 
knelling 

For the Year; 
The blithe swallows are flown and the 
lizards each gone 

To his dwelling; 
Come, months, come away ; 
Put on white, black, and gray:. 
Let your light sisters play — 
Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And make her grave green with tear on 
tear. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

'Tis the last rose of Summer, 

Left blooming alone; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh ! 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one. 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 



824 



ILLLSTJ^ATED HOME BOOK 



Go sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thv leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may I follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away I 
When true hearts lie withered. 

And fond ones are flown. 
Oh! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone. ^ 

Thomas Moore. 



COSTUME. 



Still to be neat, still to be drest, 

As you were going to a feast ; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed. — 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

•Give me a look, give me a face, 
That makes simplicity a grace; 
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, — 
Such sweet neglect more taketh me 
Than all the adulteries of art; 
They strike mine eyes, but not mine heart. 
Bex Joxson. 
II. 

A SWEET disorder in the dress 

Kindles in clothes a wantonness: 

A lawn about the shoulders thrown 

Into a fine disti-action ; 

An erring lace, which here and there 

Intrals the crimson stomacher; 

A cuff" neglectful, and thereby 

Ribbons to flow confusedly ; 

A winning wave, deserving note. 

In the tempestuous petticoat; 

A careless shoestring, in whose tie 

I see a wild ci\ility, — 

Do more bewitch me than when art 

Is too precise in ever^- part. 

Robert Herrick. 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



St. Agxes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limped trembling through the 

frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the headman's fingers while he 

told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old. 
Seemed taking flight for heaven without a 

death. 
Past the sweet virgin's ^.xture, while his 

prayer he saith. 



His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his 

knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees; 
The scvilptured dead, on each side seem to 

freeze, 
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails; 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passed by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods 

and mails. 



Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden 

tongue 
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve; 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, tor sinners' sake 

to grieve. 



That ancient beadsman heard the prelude 

sott ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was 

wide, 




COSTUMK. 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



327 



From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide; 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed. 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice 

rests. 
With hair blown back, and wings put 

crosswise on their breasts. 



At length burst in the argent revelry. 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stuffed, in youth, with 

triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away ; 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady 

there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry 

day, 
On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly 

care. 
As she had heard old dames full many 

times declare. 



They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of de- 
light. 
And soft adoririgs from their loves receive 
Upon the honeyed middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of heaven with upward eyes for all that 
they desire. 



Full of this whim A'as thoughtful Madeline; 
The music, yearning like a god in pain. 
She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine. 
Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping 

train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all; in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired ; not cooled by high dis- 
dain. 



But she saw not; her heart was otherwhere; 
She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest 
of the year. 



She danced along with vague, regardless 

(jy'es, 
Anxiou* her lips, her breathing quick and 

short; 
The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she 

sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. 
Hoodwinked with fairy fancy; all amort 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 

morn. 



So, purposing each moment to retire. 
She lingered still. Meantime across the 

moors. 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on 

fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and 

implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline; 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all un- 
seen; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in 
sooth such things have been. 



He ventures in; let no buzzed whisper tell; 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; 
For him, those chambers held barbarian 

hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage; not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in tliat mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 

soul. 



828 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's 

flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and cliorus bland. 
He startled her; but soon she knew his face 
And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from 

this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood- 
thirsty race! 



" Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish 

Hildebrand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and 

land; 
Then there 's that old Lord IVIaurice, not a 

whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! flit! 
Flit like a ghost away ! " — "Ah, gossip dear, 
We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair 

sit. 
And tell me how" — "Good saints, not here, 

not here; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will 

be thy bier." 



He followed through a lowly arched way. 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; 
And as she muttered "Well-a — well-a-day !" 
He found him in a little moonlight room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
"Oh, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
piously." 



"St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will murder upon holy days; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 



And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays> 
To venture so. It fills me with amaze 
To see thee Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays 
This very night; good angels her deceive! 
But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time 
to grieve " 



Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone • 
Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle- 
book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 

told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could 

brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments 

cold. 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 



Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 

rose. 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot; then doth he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start; 
" A cruel man and impious thou art!' 
Sweet lady, let her pray and sleep and 

dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I 

deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 

didst seem." 



,' I will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! ' 
Quoth Porphyro; "Oh may I ne'er Q'ld 

grace 
When my weak \oice shall whisper its last 

prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face; 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears, 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



329 



Oi I will, e\en in a moment';. ^p;ice, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 

ears, 
And beard them, though thev be more 

tanged than wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 

"Ah! whv wilt thou aftright a feeble soul.^ 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 

thing, 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight 

toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 

evening. 
Were never missed." Thus plaining doth 

she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
So woful, and of such deep son-owing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 

woe. 



Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless 

bride ; 
While legioned fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovers met. 
Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon- 
strous debt. 



" It shall be as thou wishest," said the danie ; 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quicklv on this feast-night; by the tambour 

frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to 

spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience kneel 

in prayer 
The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady 

wed, 



Or may I never leave my grave among the 
dead." 



.So saying she hobbled oft" with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and 

chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in 

her brain. 



Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware; 
With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
She turned, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
frayed and fled. 



Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died; 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide; 
No uttered syllable, or woe betide! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should 

swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in 

her dell. 



A casement high and triple-arched there 

was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- 
grass. 
And diamonded with pains of quaint device, 
Innumeiable of stains and splendid dyes, 



330 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked 
wings ; 

And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- 
ries, 

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood 
of queens and kings. 



Full on this casement shone the wintry 

moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair 

breast, 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and 

boon ; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 

prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint; 
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew 

faint 
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 

mortal taint. 



Anon his heart revives; her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed peat Is her hair she frees; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; 
Loosens her fragrant bodice; Dy degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, f"'* :?t Agnes in her bed, 
But daiCs not look behind, or all the charm 
is fled. 



Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, peiplexed she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; 
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; 
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims 

pray ; 
Blinded alike from sunshine and fiom rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 

again. 



Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porpiiyro gazed upon her empty dress. 
And listened to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he 

bless, 
And breathed himself; then from the closet 

crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And ovei the hushed carpet, silent, stept, 
And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, 

lo! — how fast she slept. 



Then by the bed-side where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silvei twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 
Oh foi some di'owsy Morphean amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle drum and far-heard clarionet, 
AftVav his ears, though but in dying tone : — 
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise 
is gone. 



And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered; 
While he from forth the closet brought a 

heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 

gourd; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syiups, tinct with cinnamon; 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one. 
From silken Samarcand to cedared Leban- 
on. 



These delicates he heaped with glowing 

hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of tlie night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume 

light.- 



6> ■'' roETnr and song. 



331 



■"And now, my love, my seraph fair awake! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite; 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
doth ache." 



Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains; — 'twas a midnight 

charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 

gleam ; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies; 
It seemed he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phan- 
tasies. 



Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest 

be, 
He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence called " La belle dame sans 

mercv ;" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft 

moan ; 
He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- 
denly 
Her blue eyes aflfrayed wide open shone; 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
sculptured stone. 



Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. 
There was a painful change, that nigh ex- 
pelled 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep: 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many 

a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would 

keep. 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 
eye, 



Fearing to move or speak, she looked so 
dreamingly. 



"Ah, Porphyro! " said she, "but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 

ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear : 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, 

and drear! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings 

dear ! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my love, J know not 

where to go." 



Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep re- 
pose; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet; meantime the frost-wind 

blows 
Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' 
moon hath set. 



'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown 

sleet; 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Made- 
line!" 
'T is dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 

pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — 
A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unprun- 
ed wing." 



332 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



"My Madeline! sweet tlreainer! lovely 

bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart shaped and 

vermeil dyed? 
Ah, siher shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famished pilgrim, — sa\'ed by miracle. 
Though I nave found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 

well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 



" Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from faiiy land. 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed. 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hea-n, or eyes to see, — 
Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy 

mead. 
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a 

home for thee." 



She hurried at his words, beset with fears. 
For there were sleeping dragons all around. 
At glaring watch, perhaps with ready 

spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way thev 

found. 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain -drooped lamp was flickering by 

each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and 

hound. 
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty 

floor. 



They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 

hall ! 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side; 



The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 

his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns; 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide; 
The chains lie silent on the footwora 

stones; 
The key turns, and the door upon it» 

hinges groans. ^ 



And they are gone! ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the baron dreamt of man\- ? 

woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and 

form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coflin 

worm. 
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the o\i 
Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face de- 
form ; 
The beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye, unsought-for slept among his. 
ashes cold. 

John Keats. 



CAUGHT. 

On a day, (alack the day !) 

Love, whose month was ever May, 

Spied a blossom passing fair, 

Playing in the wanton air- 

Through the velvet leaves the wind 

All unseen, 'gan passage find; 

That the lover, sick to death, 

Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. 

Air, quoth he, thy cheeks tnay blow; 

Air, would I might triumph so! 

But, alas! my hand hath sworn 

Ne'er to pluck thee from tliy thorn. 

Vow, alack, for youth immeet; 

Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. 

Do not call it sin in me. 

That I am forsworn for thee 

Thou, for whom even Jove would swear 

Juno but an Ethiop weie; 

And deny himself for Jove, 

Turning mortal for thy love. 

— Shakspeare. 




CAUGUT. 



OF POETRI 


• AND SONG. 335 


THE COURTIN'. 


But long o' her his veins 'ould run 




All crinkly like curled maple. 


God makes sech nights, all white an' still 


The side she breshed felt full o' sun 


Fur'z you can look or listen, 


Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 


Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 




All silence an' all glisten. 


She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 




Ez hisn in tlie choir; 


Zekel crep' up quite unbeknown 


My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, 


An' peeked in thru' the winder, 


She knoived the Lord was nigher. 


An' there sat Huldj all alone, 




'Ith no one nigh to hender. 


An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 




When her new meetin' bunnet 


A fireplace filled the room's one side 


Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 


With half a cord o' wood in, — 


O' blue ej'es sot upon it. 


There warn't no stoves (till comfort died; 




To bake ye to a puddin'. 


Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! 




She seemed to've got a new soul, 


The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 


For she felt sartin-sure he'd come. 


Towards the pootiest, bless her! 


Down to her very shoe- sole. 


An' leetle flames danced all about 




The chiny on the dresser. 


She heered a foot, and knowed it tu, 




A raspin' on the scraper, — 


Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung 


All ways to once her feelin's flew 


An' in among 'em rusted 


Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 


The old queen's-arm that gran'ther Young 




Fetched back from Concord busted. 


He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 




Some doubtfle o' the sekle. 


The very room, coz she was in. 
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin 


His heart kep' goin' pity-pat. 
But hern went pity Zekle. 


An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 


An' yit she gin' her cheer a jerk, 
Ez though she wished him furder, 


'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
On such a blessed creetur, 


An' on her apples kep' to work, 
Parin' away like murder. 


A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
Ain't modester nor sweeter. 


"You want to see my Pa, I s'pose.'" 
" Wall — no — I come designin' — " 




" To see my Ma.^ She's sprinklin' clo'es 


He was six foot o' man, A 1, 


Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 


Clean grit an' human natur'; 




None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 


To say why gals act so or so. 


Nor dror a furrer straighter. 


Or don't, 'ould be presumin' 




Mebby to mean yes an' say no 


He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 


Comes nateral to women. 


He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 




Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, — 


He stood a spell on one foot fust, 


But still he couldn't love 'em. 


Then stood a spell on t'other. 



336 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



An' on which one he felt the Avust 
He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

• avs he, •' I'd better call agin;" 
Says bhe, " Think likely, Mister;" 

Thet last word pricked him like a pin. 
An' — Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 
* Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 
Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 

Too tight lor all expressin', 
Tell mother see how metters stood. 

And gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 

Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
An' all I know is, they was cried 

In meetin' come nex' vSunday. 

J. R. Lowell. 



WHEN THE BOYS COME HOME. 

There's a happy time coming. 
When the boys come home, 

There's a glorious day coming, 
When the boys come home. 

We will end the dreadful story 

Of this treason dark and gory 

In a sunburst of glory. 

When the boys come home. 

The day will seem brighter 
When the boys come home, 

For our hearts will be lighter 
When the boys come home. 

Wives and sweethearts will press them 

In their arms and caress them, 



And pray God to bless them, 
When the boys come home. 

The thinned ranks will be proudest 

When the boys come home, 
And their cheer will ring the loudest 

When the boys come home. 

The full ranks will be shattered, 

And the bright arms will be bartered, 

And the battle standards tattered. 

When the boys come home. 

Their bayonets may be ru?ty. 
When the boys come home, 

And their uniforms dusty. 
When the boys come home. 

But all shall see the traces 

Of battle's royal graces 

In the brown and bearded faces. 
When the boys come home. 

Our love shall go to meet them, 

When the boys come home. 
To bless them and to greet them. 

When the boys come home; 

And the fame of their endeavor 

Time and change shall not dissever • 

From the Nation's heart forever. 

When the boys come home. 

John Hay. 



THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL 
SOUL. 

FOUNDED ON AN OLD GERMAN LEGEND. 

The fettered spirits linger 
In purgatorial ]:ain, 
With penal fires etiacing 
Their last faint earthly stain. 
Which life's imperfect sorrow 
Had tried to cleanse in \ain. 

Yet on each feast of Mary 
Their sorrow finds release. 
For the great Archangel Michael 
Comes down and bids it cease : 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



837 



And the name of these hrief respites 
Is called " Our Lady's Peace." 

Yet once — so runs the legend — 
When the archangel came, 
And all these holy spirits 
Rejoiced at Mary's name, 
One voice alone was wailing, 
iStill wailing on the same. 

And, though a great Te Deum 
The happy echoes woke. 
This one discordant wailing 
Through the sweet voices broke, 
So, when St. Michael questioned. 
Thus the poor spirit spoke : — 

*' I am not cold or thankless, 
Although I still complain; 
I prize Our Lady's blessing, 
Although it comes in vain 
To still my burning anguish. 
Or quench my ceaseless pain. 

*' On earth a heart that loved me 
Still lives and mourns me there, 
And the shadow of his anguish 
Is more than I can bear; 
All the torment that I suffer 
Is the thought of his despair. 

*' The evening of my bridal 

Death took my life away; 

Not all love's passionate pleading 

Could gain an hour's delay. 

And he I left has suffered 

A whole year since that day. 

" If I could only see him, — 

If I could only go 

And speak one word of comfort 

And solace, — then I know 

He would endure in patience. 

And strive against his woe." 

Thus the archangel answered: — 
" Your time of pain is brief, 
And soon the peace of heiven 
Will give you full relief; 
Yet, if his earthly comfort 
So much outweighs your grief, 



"Then, through a special mercy, 

I offer 30U his grace, — 

You may seek him who mourns you, 

And look upon his fase, 

And speak to him of comfort 

For one short minute's space. 

" But, when that time is ended, 
Return here, and remain 
A thousand years in torment, 
A thousand years in pain: 
Thus dearly must you purchase 
The comfort he will gain." 

***** 
The liine-trees' shade at evening 
Is spreading broad and wide; 
Beneath their fragrant arches 
Pace slowly, side by side. 
In low and and tender converse, 
A bridegroom and his bride. 

The night is calm and stilly, 

No other^sound is there 

Except their happy voices : — 

What is that cold bleak air 

That passes through the lime-trees. 

And stirs the bridegroom's hair.' 

While one low cry of anguish, 

Like the last dying wail 

Of some dumb, hunted creature, 

Is borne upon the gale: — 

Why does the bridegroom shudder 

And turn so deadly pale.' 

***** 
Near purgatory's entrance 
The radiant angels wan; 
It was the great St. Michael 
Who closed that gloomy gate. 
When the poor wandering spirit 
Came back to meet her fate. 

" Pass on," thus spoke the angel: 

" Heaven's joy is deep and vast; 

Pass on, pass on, poor spirit. 

For heaven is yours at last; 

In that one minute's anguish 

Your thousand years ha\-e passed." 

Adelaide Anne Proctep... 



838 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



GOD. 

O THOU eternal One! whose rresence bright 
All space doth occupy, all motion guide — 
Unchanged through time's all devastating 

flight! 
Thou onlj God — there is no God beside ! 
Being above all beings! Mighty One, 
Whom none can comprehend and none ex- 
plore ! 
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone — 
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er, — 
Being whom we call God, and know no 
more ! 

In its sublime research, philosophy 

May measure out the ocean-deep — niay 

count 
The sands or the sun's rays — but, God ! for 

Thee 
There is no weight nor measure ; none can 

mount 
Up to Thy mysteries; Reason's brightest 

spark, 
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would 

try 
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark; 
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 

high, 
Even like past moments in eternity. 

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 

First chaos, then existence — Lord ! in Thee 

Eternity had its foundation; all 

Sprung forth from Thee— of light, joy, har- 
mony, 

Sole origin— all life, all beauty Thine; 

Thy word created all, and doth create ; 

Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 

Thou art, and wert, and shaltbe! Glorious! 
Great ! 

Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate! 

Thy chains the unmeasured universe sur- 
round — 

Upheld by Thee, by Thee -iiopired with 
breath ! 



Thou the beginning with the end hast 

bound, 
And beautifully mingled life and death! 
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery 

blaze. 
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth 

from Thee ; 
And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thj 

praise. 

A million torches lighted by Thy hand 
Wanderunwearied through the blue abj'ss — 
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy 

command. 
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal 

light- 
A glorious company of golden streams — 
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 
Suns lighting systems wiih their joyous 

beams? 
But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 



Yes ! as a drop of M^ater in the sea. 

All this magnificence in Thee is lost: — 

What are ten thousand worlds compared to 

Thee? 
And what am I then? — Heaven's unnum- 
bered host. 
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
Is but an atom in the balance, \\eighed 
Against Thy greatness — is a cipher brought 
Against infinity ! What am I then? Naughti 

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light 

divine, 
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom 

too; 
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine. 
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions 

fly 

Eager towards Thy presence - for in Thee 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



339 



I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring 

high, 
Even to the throne of Thy divinity. 
I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! 

Thou art! — directing, guiding all — Thou 
art! 

Direct my understanding then to Thee; 

Control my spirit, guide my wandering 
heart ; 

Though but an atom midst immensity. 

Still I am something, fashioned by Tha- 
iland ! 

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and 
earth— 

On the last verge of mortal being stand, 

Close to the realms where angels have their 
birth. 

Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land! 

The chain of being is complete in me — 
In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
And the next step is spirit — deity ! 
I can command the lightning, and am dust! 
A monarch and a slave — a worm, a god! 
Whence came I here, and how.'' so marvel- 

ously 
Constructed and conceived.'* Unknown! 

This clod 
Lives surely through some higher energy; 
For from itself alone it could not be! 

Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! 
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
Thy light. Thy love, in their bright pleni- 
tude 
Filled ine with an immortal soul, to spring 
Over the abyss of death ; and bade it wear 
The garments of eternal day, and wing 
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere. 
Even to its source — to Thee — its Author 
there. 

O thoughts ineffable! Oh visions blest! 
Though worthless our conceptions all of 
Thee, 



Yet shall Thy shadowed image till our 

breast. 
And waft its homage to Thy Deity. 
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can 

soar. 
Thus seek Thj' presence — Being wise and 

good! 
Midst Thy vast works admire, obev, adore; 
And when the tongue is eloquent no more 
'^lie soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 

Gabriel Romaxowitch Derzhavin. 

(Rulsian.) 



"IT singeth low in every 

HEART." 

Tune " Auld Lana^ Sync.'' 

It singeth low in every heart, 

We hear it each and all, — 
A song of those who answer not, 

However we mav call. 
They throng the silence of the breast; 

We see them as of yore, — 
The kind, the true, the brave, the sweet, 

Who walk with us no more. 

'Tis hard to take the burden up. 

When these have laid it down: 
They brightened all the joy of life. 

They softened every frown. 
But, oh ! 'tis good to think of them 

When we are troubled sore; 
Thanks be to God that such have been, 

Although they are no more! 

More home-like seems the vast unknown. 

Since they have entered there; 
To follow them were not so hard. 

Wherever they may fare. 
They cannot be where God is not. 

On any sea or shore ; 
Whate'er betides. Thy love abides. 

Our God for evermore! 

Anonymous. 



340 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



GOD THE LIFE AND LIGHT OF 
ALL. 

Thou art, O Lord ! the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see; 

Its glow hy day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections caught from Thee: 

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

When day, with parting beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of even; 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven; 

Those hues, that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies, 

Like some dai-k, beauteous bird, whose 
plume 
Is sparkling with unnumber'd dyes; 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine. 

So grand, so countless, Lord] are Thine. 

When youthful spring around ug breathes, 
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; 

And every flower the summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye: 

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

Thomas Moors. 



THE LETTER "H." 

'TWAS whispered in heaven, and muttered 

in hell, 
And echo caught faintly the sound as it 

fell; 
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted 

to rest, 
And the depths of the ocean its presence 

confessed ; 
'T was seen the lightning, and heard in 

the thunder; 



'Twill be found in the spheres, when riven 

asunder; 
'Twas given to man with his earliest 

breath. 
Assists at his birth, and attends him in 

death ; 
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and 

health. 
Is the prop of his house, and the end of hi» 

wealth. 

It begins every hope, every wish it must 

bound, 
And though unassuming, with monarchs 

is crowned, 
III the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with 

care, 
But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir. 
Without it the soldier and sailor may roam. 
But woe to the wretch who expels it from 

home! 
In the whispers of conscience its voice will 

be found. 
Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be 

drowned, 
It softens tli£ heart; and, though deaf to 

the ear, 
It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate 

flower, — 
O, breathe on it softly ; it dies in an hour. 

Catharine Fanshawk 



DEAD. 

A SORROWFUL woman said to me, 
" Come in and look on our child." 
I saw an angel at shut of day, 
And it never spoke, — but smiled. 

I think of it in the city's streets, 
I dream of it when I rest, — 
The violet eyes, the waxen hands. 
And the one white rose on the breast! 

Thomast Bailey Aldrich. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



341 



THE FIGHT OF FAITH. 

[The author of this poem, one of the vktimsiof the 
persecuting Henry VIII,, was burnt to death at 
Smithfield in 1546. It was made and sung- by her 
while a prisoner in Newgate.] 

Like as the armed knighte, 
Appointed to the fielde, 
With this world wil I fight, 
And fliith shal be my shilde. 

Faith is that weapon stronge, 
Which wil not fail at nede; 
My foes therefore amonge, 
Therewith wil I procede. 

As it is had in strengthe, 
And forces of Chnstes waye, 
It will prevaile at lengthe, 
Though all the devils saye naye. 

Faithe of the fathers olde 
Obtained right witness, 
Which makes me very bolde 
To fear no worldes distress. 

I now rejoice in harte, 
And hope bides me do so; 
For Christ will take my part, 
And ease me of my woe. 

Thou sayst, Lord, Avhoso knocke, 
To them wilt thou attende; 
Undo, therefore, the locke, 
And thy stronge power sende. 

More enemies now I have 
Than heeres upon my head; 
Let them not me deprave. 
But fight thou in my steade. 

On thee my care I cast, 
For alLtheir cruell spight; 
I set not by their haste, 
For Thou art tny delight. 

I am not she that list 
My anker to let fall 
For every drislinge mist; 
My shippe's substancial. 



Not oft I use to Wright 
In prose, nor yet in ryme; 
Yet will I she we one sight, 
That I sawe in my time: 

I sawe a royall throne. 
Where Justice shulde have sitte; 
But in her steade was One 
Of moody cruell witte. 

Absorpt was rightwiseness, 
As by the raginge floude; 
Sathan, in his excess, 
Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude. 

Then thought I,_Jesus, Lorde, 
When thou shalt judge us all, 
Ilardc is it to recorde 
On these men what will fall. 

Yet, Lorde, I thee desire, 
For that they doe to me, 
Let them not taste the hire 
Of their iniquitie. 

Anne Askewe. 



THE NUN. 

If you become a nun, dear, 

A friar I will be; 
In any cell you run, dear, 

Pray look behind for me. 
The roses all turn pale, too; 
The doves all take the veil, too; 

The blind will see the show : 
What! you become a nun, my dear.'' 

I'll not believe it, no! 

If you become a nun, dear, 

A bishop Love will be ; 
The Cupids every one, dear, 

Will chant, " We trust in thee!" 
The incense will go sighing. 
The candles foil a dying, 

The water turn to wine. 
What! you go take the vows, my dear.' 

You may — but they'll be mine. 

Leigh Hunt. 



342 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE THREE FRIENDS. 

I HAVE three friends, three glorious friends, 

three dearer could not be ; 
And every night when midnight tolls, they 

meet to laugh with me. 
The first was shot by Carlist thieves three 

years ago in Spain, 
The second drowned near Alicante, and I 

alive lemain. 
I love to see their thin, white forms come 

stealing through the night. 
And grieve to see them fade away in the 

early morning light. 
The first with gnomes in Under-land, is 

leading a lordly life. 
The second has married a mermaiden, a 

beautiful water-wife. 
And since I have friends in the earth and sea, 

with a few I trust so high, 
'Tis a matter of small account to me, the 

way that I may die. 
For whether I sink in the foaming flood, 

or swing on the triple tree. 
Or lie in my grave as a Christian should, is 

much the same to me. 

Charles G. Leland. 



BEFORE SEDAN. 

•'The dead hand clasped a letter."— 5/^«a/ Corr 
spondeiice. 

Here in this leafy place, 

Quiet he lies, 
Cold, with his sightless face 

Turned to the skies ; 
'Tis but another dead ; — 
All you can say is said. 

Carry his body hence, — 
Kings must have slaves; 

Kings climb to eminence 
Over men's graves. 

So this man's eyes are dim; — 
Throw the earth over him. 



What was the white you touched. 

There at his side.'' 
Paper his hand had clutched 

Tight ere he died : 
Message or wish, may be : — 
Smoothen it out and see. 

Hardly the worst of us 

Here could have smiled! — 

Only the tremulous 
Words of a child : — 

Prattle, that had for stops 

Just a few ruddy drops. 

Look : she " is sad to miss, 

Morning and night. 
His" — her dead father's — " kiss,— 

Tries to be bright, 
Good to mamma, and sweet," — 
That is all. " Mar guer iter 

Ah, if beside the dead 

Slumbered the pain ! 
Ah. if the hearts that bled 

Slept with the slain ! 
If the grief died! — but no: — 

Death will not have it so. 

Anonymous. 



UNFINISHED STILL. 

A baby's boot, and a skein of wool. 

Faded, and soiled, and soft: 
Odd things, you say, and no doubt you're 

right, 
Round a seaman's neck tliis stormy night. 

Up in the yards aloft. 

Most like its folly, but, mate, look here: 

When first I went to sea 
A woman stood on the far-off strand. 
With a wedding ring on the small soft hand, 

Which clung so close to me. 

My wife, God bless her ! The day before, 
She sat beside my foot; 



OF poETnr 


AXD SONG. 343 


And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair, 


It may be if I had known them I would 


And the dainty fingers, deft and fair, 


have loved them ; 


Knitted a baby's boot. 


It may be you are from old people, and 




from women, and from offspring 


The \'oyage was over; I came ashore; 


taken out of their mother's laps; 


What, think you, found I there? 


And here you are the mother's laps. 


A grave the daisies had sprinkled white; 


This grass is very dark to be from the 


A cottage empty, and dark as night, 


white heads of old mothers; 


And this beside the chair. 


Darker than the colorless beards of old 




men ; 


The little boot, 'twas unfinished still 


Dark to come from under the painted roofs 


The tangled skein lay near. 


of mouths. 


But the knitter had gone away to rest, 


O I perceive after all so many withering 


With the babe asleep on her quiet breast 


tongues ! 


Down in the churchyard drear. 


And I perceive they do not come from the 


Anonymous. 


roofs of mouths for nothing. 




I wish I could translate the hints about the 




dead young men and women. 
And the hints about old men and mothers, 






and the offspring taken soon out of 
their laps. 


WHAT IS THE GRASS. 


A CHILD once said. What is the grass? 


What do you think has becoine of the young- 


fetching it to me with full hands; 


men and old men.' 


How could I answer the child.'* I do not 


And what do you think has become of the 


know what it is any more than he. 


women and children.? 


I guess it must be the flag of my disposition 


They are alive and well somewhere; 


out of hopeful green-stuff woven. 


The smallest sprout shows there is really no 


I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, 


death ; 


A scented gift and remembrancer designedly 


And if even there was, it led forward life, 


dropt. 


and does not wait at the end to 


Bearing the owner's name someway in the 


avert it. 


corner, that we may see and remark, 


And ceased the moment life appeared. 


and say Whose? 


All goes outward and onward — nothing 


Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the 


collapses; 


produced babe of the vegetation; 


And to die is different from what any one 


Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, 


supposed and luckier. 


And it means sprouting alike in the broad 


Walter Whitman. 


zones and narrow zones. 




Growing among black folks as among 
white ; 






Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuft", I 


REQUIESCAT. 


gave them the same I received the 


Tread lightly, she is near 


same, 


Under the snow. 


And now it seems to me the beautiful un- 


Speak gently, she can hear 


cut hair of graves. 


The daisies grow. 


Tenderly will I use you, curling grass; 




It may be you transpire from the breasts of 


All her bright golden hair 


young men; 


Tarnished with rust. 



344 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



She that was voung and fair 


In the earthquake he has spoken ; 


Fallen to dust. 


He has smitten with his thunder 


' 


The iron walls asimder. 


Lilj-like, white as snow, 


And the gates of brass are broken! 


She hardly knew 




She was a woman, so 
Sweetly she grew. 


Loud and long- 
Lift the old exulting song; 


Coffin-board, heavy stone. 
Lie on her breast, 

I vex my heart alone 
She is at rest. 


Sing with Miriam by the sea : 
He has cast the mighty down ; 
Horse and rider sink and drown; 

He has triumphed gloriously ! 


Peace, peace, she cannot hear 


Did we dare. 


Lyre or sonnet. 
All my life's buried here, 


In our agony of praj-er. 
Ask for more than He has done.-* 


Heap earth unon it. 


When was ever his right hand 


Oscar Wilde. 


Over any time or land 
Stretched as now beneath the sun.^ 




How they pale, 


LAUS DEO! 


Ancient myth and song and tale, 
In this wonder of our days. 


[On hearing the bells ring on the passage of the 
Constitutional Amendment abolishing slavery.] 

It is done! 


When the cruel rod of war 
Blossoms white with righteous law. 
And the wrath of man is praise! 


Clang of bell and roar of gun 
Send the tidings up and down. 

How the belfries rock and reel ! 

How the great guns, peal on peal, 
Fling the joy from town to town! 


Blotted out! 
All within and all about 
Shall a fresher life begin; 
Freer breathe the universe 
As it rolls its heavy curse 


Ring, O bells! 


On the dead and buried sin. 


Every stroke exulting tells 
Of the burial hour of crime. 

I^oud and long, that all may hear, 
Ring for every listening ear 
Of Eternity and Time! 


It is done! 
In the circuit of the sun 
Shall the sound thereof go forth. 
It shall bid the sad rejoice. 
It shall give the dumb a voice. 


Let us kneel: 


It shall belt with joy the earth! 


God's own voice is in that peal, 
And this spot is holy ground. 

Lord, forgive us ! What are we, 
That our eyes this glory see. 
That our ears have heard the sound ! 


Ring and swing. 

Bells of joy ! On morning's wing 
Send the song of praise abroad ! 

With a sound of broken chains, 
Tell the nations that He reigns, 


For the Lord 


Who alone is Lord and God! 


On the whirlwind is abroad ; 


John Greknleaf Whittier. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



345 



GOOD BY. 

Good bv, proud world, I'm going home: 
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; 
A river-ark on the ocean brine, 
Long I've been tossed Hke thedri\en foam, 
But now, proud world, I'm going liome. 

Good by to Flattery's fawning face; 

To Grandeur with his wise grimace; 

To upstart Wealth's averted eye; 

To supple Office, low and high; 

To crowded halls, to court and street; 

To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 

To those who go, and those who come ; 

Good by, proud world ! I'm going home. 

I'm going to my own hearth-stone, 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land, 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; 
Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay. 
And vulgar feet have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines. 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man. 
At the sophist schools, and the learned 

clan; 
For what are they all, in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may 

meet.? 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



THE SLEEP. 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvii. 2. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward into souls afar. 
Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 
♦' He giveth His beloved sleep.'" 



What would we give to our beloved.' 
The hero's heart to be unmoved. 
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep , 
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, 
The monarch's crown to light the brows .'' — 
" He giveth His beloved sleep. ' 

What do we give to our beloved.' 

A little faith all undisproved, 

A little dust to overweep. 

And bitter memories to inake 

The whole earth blasted for our sake — 

" He giveth His beloved, sleep." 

" Sleep soft, beloved! " we sometimes say, 

But have no time to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: 

But never doleful dream again 

Shall break the happy slumber, when 

" He giveth His beloved sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
O men, with wailing in your voices! 
O delved gold the wailer's heap! 

strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
God strikes a silence through you all, 
And "giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dews drop mutely on the hill. 

His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slcpe men sow and reap; 

More softly than the dew is shed. 

Or cloud is floated overhead, 

" He giveth His beloved sleep!" 

Aye, men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, fetling man, 
Conformed in such a rest to keep ; 
But angels sav, and through the word 

1 think their happy smile is heard — 
" He giveth His beloved sleep!" 

For me, my heart that erst did go 

Most like a tired child at a show 

That sees through tears the mummers leap, 

Would now its wearied vision close. 

Would childlike on His love repose, 

Who " giveth His beloved sleep." 



346 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And, iViends, dear friends, when it sliall be 
Tliat this low breath has gone from me, 
And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one most loving of jou all. 
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall, — 
He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



DOWN TO THE VALE THIS WATER 
STEERS. 

Down to the vale this water steers; how 

merrily it goes ! 
'T will murmur on a thousand years, and 

flow as now it flows; 
And here on this delightful dav, I cannot 

choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay beside this 

fountain's brink. 
My eyes are filled with childish tears, my 

heart is idly stirred, 
For the same sounil is in my ears that in 

those days I heard. 

William Wordsworth. 



DESIRE. 

Thou, who dost dwell alone; 
Thou, who dost know Thine own; 
Thou, to whom all are known. 
From the cradle to the grave, — 
Sa\e, O, save! 

From the world's temptations ; 
From tribulations ; 
From that fierce anguish 
Wherein we languish; 
From that torpor deep 
Wherein we lie asleep. 
Heavy as death, cold as the grave, 
Save, O, save ! 

When the soul, growing clearer. 
Sees God no nearer ; 
When the soul, mounting higher. 
To God comes no nigher; 



But the arch-fiend Pride 
Mounts at her side. 
Foiling her high emprize, 
Sealing her eagle eyes. 
And, Avhen she fain w-ould soar, 
Make idols to adore ; 
Changing the pure emotion 
Of her high devotion. 
To a skin-deep sense 
Of her own eloquence; 
Strong to deceive, strong to enslave, — 
Save, O, save! 

From the ingrained fasiiion 
Of this earthly nature 
That mars Thy creature ; 
From grief, that is but passion; 
From mirth, that is but feigning; 
From tears, that bring no healing; 
From wild and weak complaining; 
Thine old strength revealing. 
Save, O, save! 

From doubt, where all is double. 
Where wise men are not strong; 
Where comfort turns to trouble; 
Where just men suffer wrong; 
Where sorrow treads on joy ; 
Where sweet things soonest cloy; 
Where faiths are built on dust; 
Where love is half mistrust, 
Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea; 
O, set us free ! 

O, let the false dream fly 
Where our sick souls do lie. 
Tossing continualh'. 
O, where Thy voice doth come, 
Let all doubts be dumb; 
Let all words be mild; 
All strife be reconciled. 
All pains beguiled. 
Light bring no blindness; 
Love no unkindness; 
Knowledge no ruin ; 
Fear no undoing, 
From the cradle to the grave, — 
Save, O, save! 

Matthew Arnold. 




DOWN TO THE \ALE THIS WATER STEERS. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



349 



BLOSSOMS BENEATH THE SOD. 

There are pale sweet blossoms, beneath 
the sod, 

That will not bloom till May, 
And I long for the first warm blush of 

spring, 
And the merry swallow upon the wing, 
And to hear the first wild robin sing 

In the maple trees over the way ; 
But faded blossoms of golden rod 
Bend over the blossoms beneath the sod. 

Oh, the violets waken between the showers, 

Like the blue of the April skies. 
And the road side blooms into clover white, 
While the buttercups, shy, spring up in a 

night, 
And the meadow glows with the golden 
light 
Of the daisies' honest eyes ; 
I'm weary, so weary of golden rod, 
I long for the blossoms beneath the sod. 

I long for the buds on the maple trees. 

And the green on the lilac bough, 
And the hedge-rows sweet with the rose's 

breath. 
With the early snow-drops hiding beneath, 
And the wild sweet-fern and the cypress 
wreath. 
Where the dry leaves rustle now; 
And to see the tall, sweet lilies nod. 
Oh, the pure white lilies beneath the sod. 

And I long for the friends of my child- 
hood days, ■ 
That are gone, like the early flowers ; 

Though the friends around me are true 
and rare. 

Yet I long for those who are never there ; 

There's a fragrance flown and a hush on 
the air. 
And a sigh on the happiest hours; 

I long for the lilies that bloom with God, 

The pale, sweet blossoms beneath the sod. 

Anonymous. 



THE CRY OF THE HUMAN. 

There is no God,' the foolish saith, 

But none, 'There is no sorrow'; 
And Nature oft, the cry of faith. 

In bitter need will borrow : 
Eyes which the preacher could not school, 

By wayside graves are raised ; 
And lips say, ' God be pitiful,' 

Who ne'er said, ' God be praised.' 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The tempest stretches from the steep 

The shadow of its coming; 
The beasts grow tame, and near us creep. 

As help were in the human ; 
Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind, 

We spirits tremble under! — 
The hills have echoes: but we find 

No answer for the thunder, 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The battle hurtles on the plains — 

Earth feels new scythes upon her: 
We reap our brothers for the wains, 

And call the harvest — honour, — 
Draw face to face, front line to line. 

One image all inherit, — 
Then kill, curse on, by that same sign. 

Clay, clay, — and spirit, spirit. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

The plague runs festering through the 
town. 

And never a bell is tolling: 
And corpses jostled 'neath the moon. 

Nod to the dead-cart's rolling: 
The young child calleth for the cup — 

The strong man brings it weeping! 
The mother from her babe looks up. 

And shrieks away its sleeping. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The plague of gold strikes far and near, 
And deep and strong it enters: 

This purple chimar which we wear. 
Makes madder than the centaur's: 



350 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Our thoughts grow blank, our words grow 
strange ; 
We cheer the pale gold-diggers — 
Each soul is worth so much on 'Change, 
And markedi like sheep, with figures. 
Be pitiful, O God ! 

The curse of gold upon the land. 

The lack of bread enforces — 
The rail-cars snort from strand to strand, 

Ijike more of Death's White Horses! 
The rich preach 'rights' and future days. 

And hear no angel scoffing : 
The poor die mute — with starving gaze 

Or, corn-ships in the offing. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We meet together at the feast — 

To private mirth betake us — 
We stare down in the wine-cup lest 

Some vacant chair should shake us! 
We name delight, and pledge it round — 

'It shall be ours to-morrow ! ' 
God's seraphs, do yonr voices sound 

As sad in naming sorrow.' 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We sit together with the skies. 

The steadfast skies, above us: 
We look into each other's eves, 

'And how long will vou love us.'' 
The e^'es grow dim with prophecy, 

The voices low and breathless — 
' Till death us part! ' — O words, to be 

Our best for love the deathless! 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We tremble by the harmless bed 

Of one loved and departed — 
Oiu- tears drop on the lips that said 

Last night, ' Be stronger-hearted ! ' 
O God — to clasp those fingers close, 

And yet to feel so lonely! — 
To see a light upon such brows, 

Which is the daylight only! 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

The happy children come to us. 
And look up in our faces : 



They ask us — Was it thus, and thus, 
When we were in their places.' 

We cannot speak : — we see anew 
The hills we used to live in ; 

And feel our mother's smile press through 
The kisses she is giving. 

Be pitiful, O God ! 

We pray together at the kirk, 

For mercy, mercy, solely — 
Hands weary with the evil work. 

We lift them to the Holy ! 
The corpse is calm below our knee — 

Its spirit bright before Thee — 
Between them, worse than either, we — 

Without the rest or glory! 

Be pitiful, O God! 

We leave the communing of men. 

The murmur of the passions; 
And live alone, to live again 

With endless generations. 
Are we so brave.' — The sea and sky 

In silence lift their mirroi's; 
And, glassed therein, our spirits high 

Recoil from tiieir own terrors. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

We sit on hills our childhood wist, 

Woods, hamlets, streams, beholding: 
The sun strikes through the farthest mist, 

The city's spire to golden. 
The city's golden spire it was. 

When hope and health were strongest. 
But now it is the churchyard grass 

We look upon the longest. 

Be pitiful, O God! 

And soon all vision waxeth dull — 

Men whisper, ' He is dying: ' 
We cry no more, ' Be pitiful! ' — 

We have no strength for crying: 
No strength, no need ! Then, soul of 
mine. 

Look up and triumph rather — 
Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, 

The Son adjures the Father — 

Be pitiful, O God! 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



351 



THE WORLD IS NOT HAPPY. 

The world is wise, for the world is old ; 
Five thousand years their tale have told; 
Yet the world is not happy, as the world 

miglit be: 
Wh_v is it? why is it? O answer me! 

Tlie world is kind if we ask not too much; 
It is sweet to the taste, and smooth to the 

touch ; 
Yet the world is not happy, as the world 

might be; 
Why is it? why is it? O answer me! 

The world is strong, with an awful strength, 
And full of life in its breadth and length; 
Yet the world is not happy, as the world 

might be : 
Why is it? why is it? O answer me! 

The world is so beautiful, one may fear 
Its borrowed beauty might make it too dear ; 
Yet the world is not happy, as the world 

might be : 
Why is it? why is it? O answer me! 

The world is good in its own poor way, 
There is rest by night and high spirits by 

day; 
Yet the world is not happy, as the world 

might be: 
Why is it? why is it? O answer me! 

The Cross shines fair, and the church-bell 

rings ; 
And the earth is peopled with holy things: 
Yet the world is not happy, as the world 

might be : 
Why is it? why is it? O answer me! 

What lackest thou, world? for God made 

thee of old ; 
Why, has faith gone out and love grown 

cold? 
Thou art not happy, as thou miglitest be, 
For the want of Christ's simplicity. 



It is blood that thou lackest, thou poor old 

world ! 
Who shall make thy love hot tor thee 

frozen old world? 
Thou art not happy, as thou mightest be. 
For the love of Christ is little to thee. 

Poor world! if thou cravest a better day. 
Remember that Christ must have His own 

wav ; 
I mourn thou art not as thou mightest be, 
But the love of God would do all for thee. 

AXOXYMOLS. 



ISLE OF BEAUTY, FARE THEE 
WELL! 

Shades of evening, close not o'er us. 

Leave our lonely bark awhile! 
Morn, alas! will not restore us 

Yonder dim and distant isle; 
Still my fancy can discover 

Simny spots where friends may dwell: 
Darker shadows round us ho^•er, 

Isle of Beauty, fare thee well ! 

'Tis the hour when happy faces 

Smile around the taper's light; 
Who will till our vacant places? 

Who will sing our songs to-night? 
Through the mist that floats above us, 

Faintly sounds the vesper bell. 
Like a voice from those who love us. 

Breathing, fondly, fare thee well! 

When the waves are round me breaking. 

As I pace the deck alone, 
And my eye in vain is seeking 

Some green leaf to rest upon ; 
What would not I give to wander 

Where my old companions dwell? 
Absence makes the heart grow fonder, 

Isle of Beauty, fare thee well! 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



352 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE DAY OF THE LORD. 

The day of the Lord is at hand, at hand, 
Its storms sweep up the sky, 

A nation lies starving on heaps of gold, 
All dreamers toss and sigh. 

When the pain is sorest the child is born. 

And the hour is darkest before the dawn 

Of the day of the Lord at hand. 

Gather you, gather you, angels of God, 
Chivalry, Justice and Truth; 

Come, for the earth has grown coward and 
old- 
Come and renew us our youth, 

Freedom, Self-sacrifice, Mercy and Love; 

Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, 
To the day of the Lord at hand ! 

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell. 

Famine and Plague and War, 
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant and Misrule, 

Gather and fall in the snare ! 
Hirelings and mammonites, pedants and 

knaves. 
Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your 
graves, 

In the day of the Lord at hand ! 

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age 
of gold 

When the Lord of all ages is here.'' 
True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of 
God, 

And those who can suffer can dare ! 
Each past age of gold was an iron age, too. 
And the meekest of saints may find stern 
work to do 

In the day of the Lord at hand ! 

Chas. Kingsley. 



THE EARL O' QUARTERDECK. 

A NEW OLD BALLAD. 

The wind it blew, and the ship it fleAv; 

And it was " Hey for hame! 
And ho for hame !" But the skipper cried, 

" Haud her oot o'er the saut sea faem." 



Then up and spoke the king himsel' : 

" Haud on for Dumferline!" 
Quo the skipper, " Ye're king upo' the 
land — 

I'm king upo' the brine." 

And he took the helm intil his hand, 
And he steered the ship sae free; 

Wi' the wind astarn, he crowded sail. 
And stood right out to sea. 

Quo the king, " There's treason in this, I 
vow; 
This is something underhand!" 
" 'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, " Yer grace 
forgets 
Ye are king but o' the land!" 

And still he held to the open sea; 

And the east-wind sank behind; 
And the west had a bitter word to say, 

Wi' a white-sea roarin' wind. 

And he turned her head into the north, 
Said the king: " Gar fling him o'er." 

Quo the fearless skipper : " It's a' ye're 
worth ! 
Ye'U ne'er see Scotland more." 

The king crept down the cabin-stair, 
To drink the gude French wine, 

And up she came, his daughter fair 
And lukit ower the brine. 

She turned her face to the drivin' hail. 

To the hail but and the weet; 
Her snood it brak, and, as lang's hersel', 

Her hair drave out i' the the sleet. 

She turned her face to the drivin win — ' 
" What's that ahead!" quo she. 

The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win' 
And he drove the helm a-lee. 

" Put oto yer hand, my lady fair ! 

Put too yer hand," quo he; 
" Gin' she dinna face the win' the mair, 

It's the waur for you and me." 

For the skipper kenned that strength is 
strength. 
Whether woman's or man's at last; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



353 



To the tiller the lady she laid her han', 
And the ship laid her cheek to the blast. 

For that slender body was full o' soul, 
And the will is mair than shape; 

As the skipper saw when they cleared the 
berg, 
And he heard her quarter scrape. 

Quo the skipper: " Ye are a lady fair, 

And a princess grand to see ; 
But ye are a woman, and a man wad sail 

To hell in yer company." 

She liftit a pale and queenly face; 

Her een flashed, and syne they swim. 
" And what for no to heaven .!"' she says, 

And she turned awa' frae him. 

But she took na' her han' frae the good 
ship's helm 

Until the day did daw ; 
And the skipper he spak, but what he said 

It was said atween them twa. 

And then the good ship she lay to. 

With the land far on the lee; 
And up came the king upo' the deck, 

\Vi' wan face and bluidshot ee. 

The skipper he louted to the king : 
" Gae wa,' gae wa," said the king. 

Said the king, like a prince, " I was a' wrang. 
Put on this ruby ring." 

And the wind blew lowne, and the stars 
cam' oot. 

And the ship turned to the shore ; 
And, afore the sun was up again. 

They saw Scotland ance more. 

That day the ship hung at the pier-heid, 
And the king he stept on the land. 

" Skipper, kneel down," the king he said, 
" Hoo daur ye afore me stand.?" 

The skipper he louted on his knee, 

The king his blade he drew : 
Said the king, " How daured ye centre me.'' 

I'm aboard my ain ship noo." 

" I canna mak ye a king," said he, 
For the Lord alone can do that; 



And besides ye took it intil yer ain han' 
And crooned yersel' sae pat! 

" But wi' what ye will I redeem my ring; 

For ance I am at your beck ; 
And first, as ye loutit Skipper o' Doon, 

Rise up Yerl o' Quarterdeck." 

The skipper he rose and looked at the 
king 

In his een for all his croon : 
Said the skipper, " Here is yer grace's ring 

And yer daughter is my boon." 

Thereid blude sprang into the king's face, — 

A wrathful man to see: 
" The rascal loon abuses our grace ; 

Gae hang him upon yon tree." 

But the skipper he sprang aboard his ship. 

And he drew his biting blade; 
And he struck the chain that held her fast, 

But the iron was ower weel made. 

And the king he blew a whistle loud ; 

And tramp, tramp, down the pier. 
Cam' twenty riders on twenty steeds, 

Clankin' wi' spur and spear. 

" He saved your life!" cried the lady fair; 

'• His life ye daurna spill!" 
" Will ye come atween me and my hate.'' 

Quo the lady, " And that I will !" 

And on cam' the knights wi' spur and spear 

For they heard the iron ring. 
" Gin ye care na for yer father's grace, 

Mind ye that I am the king." 

" I kneel to my father for his grace, 

Right lowly on my knee; 
But I stand and look the king in the face. 

For the skipper is king o' me." 

She turned and she sprang upo' the deck, 
And the cable splashed in the sea, 

The good ship spread her wings sae white, 
And away with the skipper goes she. 



854 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Now was not this a king's daugliter, 

And a brave lady beside? 
And a woman with whom a man might sail 

Into the heaven wi' pride? 

GKORGii MacDoxald. 



THE PILGIMAGE. 

Give me thv scallop-shell of quiet, 

Mv stafi" of faith to walk u[ion ; 
My scrip of joy immortal diet; 

My bottle of salvation; 
My gown of glory, hope s true gauge, 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage! 
Blood must be my body's 'balmer. 
No other balm will there be given; 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 
Traveleth toward the land of Heaven, 
Over the silver mountains 
Where spring the nectar tbuntains. 
There will I kiss the bowl of bliss, 
And drink mine everlasting till 
Upon every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before, 
l>ut after, it will thirst no more. 
Then by that happy, blissful day, 
More peaceful pilgrims 1 shall see. 
That have cast off their rags of clay. 
And walk appareled iVesh like me. 
I'll take them first to quench their thirs*^ 
And taste of nectar's suckets 
At those clear wells where sweetness 

dwells 
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. 
And when our bottles and all we 
Are tilled with immortalitv, 
Then the blest paths we'll travel, 
ijtrewed with rubies thick as gravel, — 
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, 
High walls of coral, and pearl v bowers. 
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall. 
Where no corrupted voices brawl; 
No conscience molten into gold. 
No tbrged accuser bought or sold. 
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, 
For there Christ is the King's Attorney ; 
\V ho jtleads tor all without degrees. 



And he hath angels, but no fees; 

And when the grand twehe-million \\\\\ 

Ofoiu-sins, with direful fury, 

'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, 

Christ pleads his death, and then we live. 

Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, 

Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder! 

Thou giv'st salvation even for alms, — 

Not with a bribed lawyer's pahns. 

And this is mine eternal plea 

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea. 

That, since my flesh must die so soon, 

And want a head to dine next neon. 

Just at the stroke when my \eins start and 

spread. 
Set on my soul an everlasting head : 
Then am I, like a palmer, tit 
To tread those blest paths which before I 

writ. 
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, 
Who otVdoth think, must needs die well. 

8iK Walter IvALiaiiii. 



WHAT 



AILS THEE MV SOX 
R01J1N.= 



What ails thee, my son Robin? 

My heart is sore tor thee : 
Thi' cheeks aregrooin' thinner, 

An' thi' leet has latt thi' e'e; 
Theau trails abeaut so lonesome 

An' looks so pale at morn ; 
God bless tho, lad, aw'm soory 

To see tho' so forlorn. 

Thi' f'tratsteps sadly awlert, — 

Au' used to know it weel; 
Naw, arto fairy -strucken; 

Or arto gradely ill? 
Or hasto bin wi' th' witches 

r th' cloot", at deep o' th' neet? 
Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo, 

For suinmat is not reet! 

" Neaw, mother, diumot fret yo; 

An' am not like mysel'; 
But, 'tis not lung o, th.' feeorin^ 

An've had to do wi' 'th deil; 



OF POETRT AND SOJVG. 



855 



Thoro's naught at llius couUi liauiit nio, 
r th' I'lool', In iioct. iK)r day; — 

It's joii blue e'en o' M.iry's; — 
TIk'v'vo ta'oM inv lilc away. 

" An' tloaw t au'xo iloiu' \\ i' cdmlbrt 

To th' ila\- that a.v num iloc; 
For th' place hoo sets her taut on, 

It's fairy greavvtul to me; 
But oh, it's useless speigiikin', 

Au' ct)nnot ston her piMiie ; 
An' when a true hearts hreighkin' 

It's very hard to hide ! " 

Neaw (jt)il he w i' tho, Roliin; 

Just let her lia\e her wav; 
Hoo'U never meet thy marrow, 

For mony a summer day ! 
Au're just same with thi leyther, 

When first he spoke to me: 
So, go thi ways, an' whistle; 

An' th' lass '11 come to thee. 

Edwin Waucjii. 



DORA. 



With Farmer Allan at the farm ahoile 
William and Dora. William was his son, 
And she his niece. He often looked at 

them, 
And often thought, " I'll make them man 

anil wife." 
Now Dora felt her imele's will in all, 
And yearned towards William; hut the 

youth, because 
He had been always w ith her in the house 
'i'hought not of Dora. 

Then there came a liay 

When Allan called his son, and said: " INIy 

son, 
I married late, hut I wdulil wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die; 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora: she is well 
To look to: thrifty, too, beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daugiiter: he and I 



lladoiuc hard words, and parted, and he 

died 
In foreign laiuls; but for his sake \ i)rcd 
His daughter Dora: lake her for your wife. 
For I have wished this marriage night and 

liay 
For many years." Ihil \\illi:nn answered 

short: 
"I cannot marry Dora; bynn lilc, 1 will 

not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and 

said : 
" You will not, boy! you dare to answer 

thus! 
But in my time a father's word was law. 
And so it .shall be now for me. Look to't: 
Consider, William; take a month to think, 
iVnd let me ha\e an answer to my wish, 
Or, by the Loid that made me, you shall 

pack. 
And never more darken mv lioors again." 
Hut William answered mailU', bit his lips, 
.Vnd broke away. The more be looked at 

her 
'Die less he liked her; .■uul his ways were 

harsh ; 
lUit Dora bore them meekly. Then be- 
fore 
The month was out he k'ft his father's house, 
And hired hiinselt'lo work within the (ieliis; 
Anil half in love, hall" spile, he woo'd and 

wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan 

called 
His niece anil said : " My girl, I love vou 

well. 
Hut if you s])cak with him that was my son, 
(.)\' change a word with her he calls his 

wile. 
My home is none of yours. My will is 

law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
"It cannot be; my uncle's mind will 

change." 
And days went on, ami there was born a 

boy 



356 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



To William; then distresses came on him: 
And day bj dav he passed his father's 

gate, 
Heart-broken, and his father helped him 

not. 
But Dora stored what little she could save, 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 

know 
Who sent it, till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And looked with tears upon her boy, and 

thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said 
" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
And I have sinned, for it was all through 

me 
This evil came on William at the first. 
But Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 
And for your sake, the woman that he 

chose, 
And for this orphan, I am come to you; 
You know there has not been for these five 

years 
So full a harvest: let me take the boy. 
And I will set him in mv uncle's eye 
Among the wheat; that when his heart is 

glad 
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone." 
And Dora took the child, and went her 

way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field. 
And spied her not; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to 

him. 
But her heart failed her, and tlie reapers 

reaped, 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 
But when the morrow came she rose and 

took 
The child once more, and sat upon the 

mound. 



And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat, 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer passed into the field, 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said: "Where were you 

yesterday.' 
Whose child is that.? What are you doing 

here.'"' 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground 
And answered softly: "This is William's 

child!" 
" And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora.-^" Dora said again, 
" Do with me as you will, but take the child 
And bless him for the sake of him that's 

gone." 
And Allan said : " I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt vou and the -woman there. 
I must be taught ni}' duty, and by you ! 
You knew my word was law, and yet you 

dared 
To slight it. Well— for I will take the boy; 
But go you hence, and never see me more " 
So saying, he took the boy, that cried 

aloud. 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flow- 
ers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field, ' 
More and more distant. She bowed down 

her head, 
Remembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She 

bowed down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers 

reaj)ed, 
And the sun fell, and all in the land was 

dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house and 

stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise 
To God that helped her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said: " M\ uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you: 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



357 



He says that he ^vill never see me more." 
Then answered Marv: " This shall never 

be, 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy- 
self; 
And, now I think, he shall not have the 
! boy. 

For he will teach him hardness, and to 

sHght 
His mother; therefore, thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him 

home. 
And I will beg of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one 

house. 
And work for William's child until he 

grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kissed 
Each other, and set out, and reached the 

farm. 
The door was off the latch; they peep'd, 

and saw 
The bov set up betwixt his grandsire's 

knees. 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm. 
And clapt him on the hands and on the 

cheeks. 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad 

stretched out 
And babbled for the golden seal that hung 
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the 

fire. 
Then they came in, but when the boy be- 
held 
His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said ; 
"Oh, Father! if you will let me call you 

so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora; take her back, she loves you 

well. 
Oh, sir, when William died, he died at 

peace 
With all men ; for I asked him, and he 

said 



He could not ever rue his marrying me — 
I had been a patient wife: but, sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 
'God bless him!' he, said, 'and may he 

never know 
The troubles I have gone through ! ' Then 

he turned 
His face and passed — unhappy that lam! 
But now, sir, let me have my boy ; for 

you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to 

sliglit 
His father's memory; and take Dora back, 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
Bv Marv. There was silence in the room; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sobs : — 
" I have been to blame — to blame. I have 

killed my son. 
I have killed him — but I loved him — my 

dear son. 
May God forgive me! — I have been to 

blame. 
Kiss me, my children." 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kissed him many 

times. 
And all the man was broken with remorse; 
And all his love came back a hundredfold; 
And tor three hours he sobbed o'er Will- 
iam's child, 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together; and as years 
Went forward, Mary took another mate; 
But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE PROBLEM. 

I LIKE a church; I like a cowl. 

I love a prophet of the soul; 

And on my heart monastic aisles 

Fall like sweet strains of pensive smiles; 

Yet not for all his taith can see 

Would I that cowled churchman be. 



358 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Why should the vest on him alhire, 
Which I could not on n^e endure? 

Not from a vain or shallow thought 

His awful Jove voung Phidias brought, 

Never tVom lips of cunning fell 

The thrilling Delphic oracle; 

Out from the heart of nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old ; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 

Up from the burning cove below, — 

The canticles of love and woe; 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 

Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 

Himself from God he could not free; 

He builded better than he knew; — 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's 

nest 
Of leaves and feathers from her breast? 
Or how the fish outbuilt her shell 
Painting with morn each annual cell? 
Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
To her old leaves new myriads? 
Such and so grew these holy piles, 
Whilst love and terror laid the files, 
Each proudly wears the Parthenon 
As the best gem upon her zone ; 
And morning opes with haste her lids. 
To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
O'er England's abbey's bends the sky, 
As on its friends, with kindred eve; 
For out of Thought's interior sphere 
These wonders rose to upper air; 
And Nature gladly gave them place. 
Adopted them into her race, 
And granted them an equal date 
With Andes and with Ararat. 
These temples grew as grows the grass ; 
Art might obey, but not surpass; 
The passive Master lent His hand 
To the vast soul that o'er him planned; 
And the same power that reared the shrine 
Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
Even the fiery Pentecost 
Girds with one flame the countless host. 



Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
And through the priest the mind inspires- 

The Word unto the prophet spoken 
Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
The word bj seers or sibyls to'd, 
In groves of oak or fanes of gold 
Still floats upon the morning wind, 
Still whispers to the willing mind. 
One accent of the Holy Ghost 
The heedless world hath never lost. 
I know what say the fathers wise, — 
The Book itself before me lies. 
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
And he who blent both in his line 
The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
Taylor, the Shaksjieare of divines. 
His words are music in my ear, 
I see his cowled portrait dear; 
And yet, for all his faith could see 
I would not the good bishop be. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



SONNETS. 

How orient is Thy beauty ! How divine! 
How dark's the glory of the earth to Thine ! 
Thy veiled eyes outshine heaven's greater 

light, " 
Unconquered by the shady cloud of night; 
Thy curious tresses dangle, all unbound, 
With unaftected order to the ground : 
How orient is thy beauty ! How divine! 
How dark's the glory of the earth to Thine! 



Nor myrrh, nor cassia, nor the choice per 

fumes 
Of unctious nard, or aromatic fumes 
Of hot Arabia do enrich the air 
With more delicious sweetness than the 

fair 
Reports that crown the merits of Thy name 
With heavenly laurels of eternal fame, 
Which makes the virgins fix their eyes 

upon Thee, 
And all that view Thee are enamored on 

Thee. 



OF POETRl' AND SONG. 



359 



Who ever smelt the breath of morning 

flowers 
New sweetened by the dash of twilight 

showers, 
Of pounded amber, or the flowing thyme, 
Or purple violets in their proudest prime, 
Or swelling clusters from the cypress tree? 
So sweet's my love; aye, far more sweet is 

He— 
So fair, so sweet, that heaven's bright eye 

is dim. 
And flowers have no scent compared with 

Him. 

Fraxcis Quarles. 



COUNTRY LIFE. 

Not what we would, but what we must, 

Makes up the sum of living ; 
Heaven is both more or less than just 

In taking and in giving. 
Swords cleave to hands that sought the 
plow. 

And laurels miss the soldiers' brow. 

Me, whom the city holds, wiiose feet 
Have worn the stony highways, 

Familiar with its lonliest street — 
Its ways are never my ways. 

My cradle was beside the sea. 

And there I hope my grave will be. 

Old homestead in tliat old gray town 

The vane is seaward blowing, 
Thy slip of garden stretches down 

To where the tide is flowing: 
Below they lie, their sails all furled, 
The ships that go about the world. 

Dearer that little country house, 

Inland, with pines beside it; 
Some peach trees with unfruitful boughs, 

A well with weeds to liide it; 
No flowers— or only such as rise 
Self-sown, poor things, which all despise. 

Dear country home! Can I forget 

The least of thy sweet trifles.' 
The window vines, whicli clamber yet, 

Wiiose blooms the bee still rifles.' 
The roadside blackberries, grovving ripe. 

And in the wood the Indian pipe? 



Happy the man who tills the field. 

Content with rustic labor; 
Earth does to him her fullness yield. 

Hap what may to his neighbor. 
Well days, sound nights — oh, can there be 
A life more rational and free? 

Dear country life of child and man! 

For both the best, the strongest, 
That with the earliest race began, 

And has outlived the longest. 
Their cities perished long ago; 
Wlio the first farmers were we know. 

Perhaps our Babels, too, will fall; 

If so, no lamentations. 
For Mother Earth will shelter all 

And feed the unborn nations; 
Yes, and the swords tliat menace now 

Will then be beaten by the plow. 

R. H. Stoddard. 



be 



PROCRASTINATION. 

FROM "NIGHT THOUGHTS." 

Be wise to day; 'tis madness to defer; 

Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 

Tlius on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. 

Procrastination is the thief of time; 

Year after year it steals, till all are fled, 

And to the mercies of a moment leaves 

The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 

If not so frequent, would not thi 
strange? 

That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. 

Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears 

The palm, " That all men are about to 
live," 

Forever on tbe brink of being born. 

All pay themselves the compliment to think 

They one day shall not drivel: and their 
pride 

On tliis reversion takes up ready praise; 
I At least, their own ; their future selves ap- 
I plaud : 

I How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! 



360 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Time lodged in their own hands is folly's 

veils; 
That lodged in Fate's, to wisdom thej con- 
sign ; 
The thing they can't but purpose, they post- 
pone: 
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool, 
And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
All proinise is poor dilatory man, 
And that through every stage. When 

young, indeed, 
In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish. 
As duteous sons, our fathers were more 

wise. 
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; 
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; 
At fifty, chides his infamous delay. 
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; 
In all the magnanimity of thought, 
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the 
same. 
And why.' Because he thinks himself 
immortal. 
All men think all men mortal but them- 
selves; 
Themselves, when some alarming shock of 

fate 
Strikes through their wounded hearts the 

sudden dread; 
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded 

air. 
Soon close ; where passed the shaft, no trace 

is found. 
As from the wing no scar the sky retains. 
The parted wave no furrow from the keel. 
So dies in human hearts the thought of 

death: 
Even with the tender tears which Nature 

sheds 
O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. 

Edward Young. 



"LABORARE EST ORARE." 

" Labor ARE est orare " 

Sang a monk of ancient time; 



Sang it at the early matin. 

Sang it at the vesper chime. 
" Work is worship," God, my brothers, 

Takes our toils for homage sweet, 
And accepts as signs of worship. 

Well-worn hands and wearied feet. 

" Laborare est orare," 

Watchword of the old divine, 
Let us take it for our motto, 

Serving in this later time. 
Work is worship, toil is holy, 

Let this thought our zeal inspire; 
Every deed done well and bravely. 

Burns with sacrificial fire. 

Elmo. 



HARRY ASHLAND, ONE OF MY 
LOVERS. 

I HAVE a lover, a little lover, he rolls on 

th.e grass and plays in the clover; 
He builds block-houses and digs clay wells, 

and makes sand-pies in his hat. 
On Sunday's he swings in the little porch, 

or has a clean collar and goes to 

church. 
And asks ine to many him when he grows 

up, and live in a house " like that." 
He wears a great apron like a sack, — it's 

hard they don't put him in trousers 

and jackets ; 
But his soul is far above buttons, and his 

hopes for the future o'ershoot them, 
For Harry, like larger lovers, will court 

without any visible means of sup- 
port, 
And ask you to give him your heart and 

hand, when he doesn't know where 

to put them. 

All dav he's tumbling, and leaping, and 
jumping, — running and calling, ham- 
mering and thumping, 

Playing "bo-peep" with the blue eyed 
babe, or chasing the cows in the lane; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



361 



But at twilight around my cliair he Hngers, 
clasping mj hand in liis dimpled 
fingers, 

And I wonder if love so pure and fresh I 
shall ever inspire again! 

The men that kneel and declaim their pas- 
sion, — the men that "annex" you in 
stately fashion, — 

There is not so much of truth and warmth 
in all the hearts of a score, — 

And I look in the honest eves of this baby, 
and wonder what would have hap- 
pened, maybe. 

If Heaven had not made me be twenty 
now, while Harry is only four. 

I have a little rival named Ada, she clings 

to a promise that Harry made her, 
"To build her a house all full of doors," 

and live with her there some day ; 
But Ada is growing lank and thin, — they 

say she will have a peaked chin. 
And I think had nearly outgrown her "first 

love " before I came in the way. 
She wears short skirts, and a pink-trimmed 

Shaker, the nicest aprons her inother 

can make her. 
And a Sunday hat with feathers; but it 

doesn't matter how she is dressed, 
For Harry — sweetest of earthly lispers — 

has said in my ear in loudest whis- 
pers. 
With his dear short arms around my neck, 

that he likes the gro'cvti-tip bonnets 

best." 

He says he shall learn to be a lawyer, but 

his private preference is a sawyer, 
And counselors, not less than carpenters, 

live by "saw-dust" and by bores. 
It's easier to saw a plank in two than to 

bore a judicial blockhead through. 
And if panels of jurors fail to yield, he can 

always panel doors. 
It's a question of enterprise I'ersus wood, 

and if his hammer and will be good. 
If his energetic little brown hand be as 

steady and busy then. 



Though chisel or pen be the weapon he's 
needing, whether his business is 
planing or pleading, 

Harry will cut his way through the ranks, 
and stand at the head of you men! 

I say to him sometimes, " My dearest 

Harr\', we havn't money enough to 

marry ; " 
He has sixty cents in his little tin " bank," 

and a keepsake in his drawer; 
But he always promises, " I'll get plenty — 

I'll find where they make it, when 

I'm twenty ; 
I'll go down town where the other men do, 

and bring it out of the store." 
And then he describes such wonderful 

dresses, and gives me such gallant 

hugs and caresses, 
With items of courtship from Mother 

Goose, silk cushions and rings of 

gold. 
And I think what a fond true breast to 

dream on, what a dear, brave heart 

for a woman to leaii on, 
What a king and kingdom are saving up 

for some baby a twelvemonth old ! 

Twenty years hence, when I am forty, and 

Harry a yoimg man gay and naughty, 
Flirting and dancing, and shooting guns, 

driving fast horses and cracking 

whips, 
The handsomest fellow! — Heaven bless 

him! — setting the girls all wild to 

possess him, — 
With his dark mustache and hazel eyes, 

and cigars in those pretty lips! 
O, do you think he will qntte forget me, — 

do you believe he will ever regret 

me .'' 
Will he wish the twenty years back again, 

or deem this an idle myth. 
While I shall sometimes push up my 

glasses, and sigh as my babv lover 

passes. 
And wonder if Heaven sets this world 

right, as I look at Mr. Smith! 

Anonynous. 



363 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



LOVE THY MOTHER, EITTLE ONE. 

Love thv mother, little one! 
Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 

Gaze upon her loving eyes, 
And mirror back her love tor thee, — 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
To meet them when thej' cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes! 

Press her lips the while they glow 
With love that they have often told, — 
Hereafter thou niay'st jiress in woe. 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow! 

Pray for her at eve and morn. 
That heaven may long the stroke defer, — 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Prav for her at eve and morn! 

Thomas Hood. 



DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 

"Not yet, the flowers are in luy path, 

The sun is in the sky ; 
Not yet, my heart is full of hope, 

I cannot bear to die. 

" Not yet, I never knew till now 
How precious life could be; 

My heart is full of love, O Death! 
I cannot come with thee!" 

But Love and Hope, enchanted twain, 
Passed in their falsehood by ; 

Death came again, and then he said, 
" I'm ready now to die !" 

Letitia E. Laxdon. 



WELCOME TO THE NATIONS. 

SUNG AT PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876. 

Bright on the banners of lily and rose, 

Lo, the last sun of our century sets! 
Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on 
our foes, 
All but her friendships the Nation for- 
gets— 
All but her friends and their welcome 
forgets ! 
These are around her. But where are her 
foes.'' 
Lo, while the sun of her century sets, 
Peace with her garlands of lily and rose! 

Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's 
swell 
Wakes the wild echoes that slumber 
around ; 
Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell; 
Welcome ! the walls of her temple re- 

soimd. 
Hark ! the gray walls of her temple re- 
sound ; 
Fade the tar voices o'er hillside and dell; 
Welcome, still whisper the echoes around ; 
Welcome, still trembles on Liberty's bell. 

Thrones of the Continents! Isles of the 
Sea! 

Yours are the garlands of peace we en- 
twine; 
Welcome, once more, to the land of the 
free. 

Shadowed alike by the palm and the pine; 

Softly they murnua-, the palm and the 
pine, 
" Hushed is our strife, in the land of the 
free ;" 

Over your children their branches en- 
twine. 

Thrones of the Continents! Isles of the 
Sea! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




" LOVE THY MOTHER, LITTLE ONE." 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



365 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

Up from the South at bieak of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresli dismay, 
The aliVighted air with a shudder bore. 
Like a lierald in haste, to the cliieftain's 

door. 
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once !nore. 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 



And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon's bar; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 
Making the blood of the listener cold 
As he thought ot the stake in iliat fiery 

fray. 
With Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester town, 
A good, broad highway, leading down ; 
And there, through the Hash of the morn- 
ing light, 
A steed as black as the steeds of night, 
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. 
As if he knew the terrible need. 
He stretched away with the utmost speed ; 
Hills rose and fell, — but his heart was gay, 
With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thun- 
dering South, 

The dust, like smoke from the cannon's 
mouth; 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and 
faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 

The heart of the steed, and the heart of the 
master, 

Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their 
walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field calls: 

Every nerve of the charger was strained to 
full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 



Under his spurning feet, the road 
Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
And the landscape sped away behind. 
Like an ocean flying before the wind; 
And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace 

ire. 
Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire; 
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, 
He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring 

fray. 
With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the 

groups 
Of stragglers, and then the retreating 

troops ; 
What was done, — what to do, — a glance told 

him both. 
And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 
He dashed down the line mid a storm of 

huzzas, 
And the wave of retreat checked its course 

there, because 
The sight of the master compelled it to 

pause. 
With foam and with dust the black charger 

was grav ; 
By the flash of his eye, and his nostril's 

play, 
He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down, to save the day!" 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! 
Hurrah, hurrah for horse and mam 
And when their statues are placed on high, 
Under the dome of the Union skv, — 
The American soldier's Temple of Fame, — 
There with the glorious General's name 
Be it said in letters both bold and bright: 
" Here is the steed that saved the day 
By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
From Winchester, — twenty miles away!" 

Thomas Buchanan Read. 



366 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


1 

SON OF MARY, HEAR. 


1 
We'll leave them there 




To their mother's care. 


When our heads are bowed with woe, 




1 When our bitter tears o'ertiow. 




When we mourn the lost, the dear: 


There were three of us — Kate, and Susan, 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 


and Jem, 




And three of them — 


Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 


I don't know their names, for they couldn't 


1 Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, 


speak, 


Thou hast shed the human tear: 


Except with a little imperative squeak 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 


Exactly like Poll, 




Susan's squeaking doll. 


When the sullen death-bell tolls 


But squeaking dolls will lie on the shelves 


For our own departed souls — 


For years, and never squeak of themselves. 


When our final doom is near. 


The reason we like little birds so much bet- 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 


ter than toys 




Is because they are really alive, and know 


Thou hast bowed the dying head, 


how to make a noise. 


Thou the blood of life hast shed, 




Thou hast filled a mortal bier; 




Gracious son of Mary, hear! 


There were three of us and three of them; 




Kate — that is I — and Susan and Jim. 


When the heart is sad within 


Our mother was busy making a pie, 


With the thought of all its sin. 


And theirs, we think, was up in the sky^ 


When the spirit shrinks with fear, 


But for all Susan, Jimmy, or I can tell, 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 


She may have been getting their dinner as 




well. 


Thou the shame, the grief hast known; 


They were left to themselves (and sO' 


Though the sins were not Thine own, 


were we) 


Thou hast deigned their load to bear; 


In a nest in the hedge by the willow tree, 


Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 


And when we caught sight of three red lit- 




tle fiuft-tufted, hazel-eyed, open- 


Henry Hart Milman. 


mouthed, pink-throated heads, we all 




shouted for glee. 




The way we really did wrong was this : 


THREE LITTLE NEST-BIRDS. 


We took them for mother to kiss. 




And she told us to put them back. 


We meant to be veiy kind; 


While on the weeping-willow their mother 


But if ever we find 


was crying "Alack !" 


Another soft, gray-green, moss-coated. 


We really heard 


feather-lined nest in a hedge. 


Both what mother told us to do and the 


We have taken a pledge — 


voice of the mother-bird. 


Susan, Jimmy, and I — with remorseful 


But we three— that is, Susan and I and 


tears, at this very minute, 


Jim — 


That if there are eggs or little birds in it, 


Thought we knew better than either of 


Robin or wren, thrush, chaffinch, or linnet. 


them ; 



OF POETRT AN-D SONG. 



367 



And in spite of our mother's command and 

the poor bird's crj, 
We determined to bring up tlie three little 
nestlings ourselves on the slj. 
We each took, one, 
It did seem such excellent fun! 
Susan fed hers on milk and bread; 
Jim got wriggling worms for his instead. 
I gave mine meat, 
For, \ou know, I thought, "Poor darling 
pet! why shouldn't it have roast beef 
to eat?" 
But, oil dear! oh dear! oh dear! How we 

cried 
When, in spite of milk and bread and 
worms and roast beef, the little birds 
died! 



It's a terrible thing to have heart ache. 
I thought mine would break 
As I heard the mother-bird's moan, 
And looked at the gray-green, moss-coated 
teather-lined nest she had taken such 
pains to make. 
And her three little children dead and cold 
as a stone. 
Mother said, and it's sadly true, 
"There are some wrong things one can 
never undo." 
And nothing that we could do or say 
Would bring life back to the birds that day. 



The bitterest tears that we could weep 
Wouldn't wake them out of their stift' cold 

sleep. 

But then, 
We — Susan and Jim and I — mean never to 

be so selfish and willful and cruel 

again. 
And we three have buried that other three 
In a soft, green, moss-covei'ed, tlower-lined 

grave at the foot of the willow-tree. 
And all the leaves wiiich its brandies shed 
We think are tears because they are dead. 

Anoxymous. 



A CLASSIC LOVE SONG FROM 
HORACE. 

TRANSLATION. LIBER III., CARMEN IX. 

H or ait US. 
O Lydia, while no other arms dare twine 
Around thy snowy neck, and while none 
knew 
The favor of thy smile, while both were 
mine; — 
Far happier than a Persian prin-e I grew. 

Lydia. 

So long as thou had'st not a greater flame; 

Then I, not Chloe, was by thee caressed; 
Then I thy Lydia of illustrious name. 

Lived happier than Rome's Ilia, and more 

blessed. 

Horatius, 
The Thracian Chloe is my guardian now. 
She softly sweeps the lyre, and chants 
the lay ; — 
For her dear sake my head in death I'd 
bow. 
Could she but live when I should pass 
aw'ay. 

Lydia. 
Calais of Thurnian Crinthus claims my 
hearth 
And in my breast he kindles mutual 
fire; — 
Should fate extend his life, if mine depart, 
Then I would fearless die, yea, twice ex- 
pire. 

Horatius. 
What, Lydia, if our earthly love return. 
And bind our severed hearts with golden 
charms.'' 
What, if the auburn Chloe I should spurn. 
And wait to fold thee in these loving arms.' 

Lydia. 
Why, then, were Calais like a glittering star, 

And thou as restless as the tossing sea; 
If fickle as a cork, and lighter lar. 

Yet happy would I live and die with thee. 

Reuben F. Handford. 



368 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



GODIVA. 

/ -waited for the train at Coventry : 

I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge^ 

To xvatch the three tall spires, and there I 

shaped 
The citys ancient legend into this : — 

Not only we, the latest seed of time, 
New men, that in the fijing of a wheel 
Cry down the past; not only we, that prate 
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the peo- 
ple well. 
And loathed to see them overtaxed ; but she 
Did more, and underwent, and overcame, 
The woman of a thousand summers back, 
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl who ruled 
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax 
Upon his town, and all the mothers brought 
Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, we 

starve ! " 
She sought her lord, and found him, where 

he strode 
About the hall, among his dogs, alone; 
His beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A yard behind. She told him of their tears. 
And prayed him, " If they pay this tax they 

starve." 
Whereat he stared, replying, half amazed, 
" You would not let your little finger ache 
For such as thesef'' "But I would die," said 

she. 
He laughed, and swore by Peter and by Paul, 
Then filliped at the diamond in her ear; 
"O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Alas!" she said, 
" But prove me what it is I would not do." 
And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand 
He answered, "Ride you naked through the 

town. 
And I repeal it;" and nodding, as in scorn, 
He parted, with great strides among his dogs. 

So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
As winds from all the compass shift and 

blow. 
Made war upon each other for an hour. 
Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, 

all 



The hard condition ; but that she would 

loose 
The people: therefore, as they loved her 

well. 
From then till noon no foot should pace the 

street. 
No eye look down, she passing; but that all 
Should keep within, door shut and window 

barred . 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, and 

there 
Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The grim earl's gift; but ever at a breath 
She lingered, looking like a summer moon 
Half diptin cloud: anon she shook her head. 
And showered the rippled ringlets to her 

knee; 
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair 
Stole on : and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid 
From pillar unto pillar, uritil she reached 
The gateway; there she found her palfrey 

trapt 
In purple blazoned with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity : 
The deep air listened round her as she rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for 

fear. 
The little wide-mouthed heads upon the 

spout 
Had cunning eyes to see : the barking cur 
Made her cheeks flame : her palfrey's foot- 
fall shot 
Light horrors through her pulses : the blind 

walls 
Were full of chinks and holes : and overhead 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared : but she 
Not less through all bore up, till, last, she 

saw 
The white-flowered elder thicket from the 

field 
Gleam through the Gothic archways in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity : 
And one low churl, compact of thankless 

earth. 
The fatal byword of all years to come, 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 369 


' Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 


And time our joys dispel, 


Peeped — but his eyes, before thej had their 


Never, no, never! 


will, 




Were shriveled into darkness in his head. 
And dropt before him. So the powers, who 


Soon shall we meet again, 
Meet ne'er to sever; 


wait 
On noble deeds, cancelled a sense misused; 
And she, that knew not, passed: and all at 


Soon shall peace wreathe her chain 

Round us for ever. 
Our hearts will then repose. 


once, 
With twelve great shocks of sound, the 

shameless noon 
Was clashed and hammered from a hun- 


Safe from each blast that blows, 
And songs of praise shall close. 
Never, no never! 


dred towers, 


Anonymous. 


One after one: but even then she gained 




Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and 
crowned. 


^ 




To meet her lord, she took the tax away, 




And built herself an everlasting name. 


KATYDID. 


Alfred Tennyson. 






I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice. 




Wherever thou art hid 




Thou testy little dogmatist. 


THE FUTURE MEETING. 


Thou pretty Katydid ! 


When shall we meet again. 

Meet ne'er to sever.^ 
When shall peace wreathe her chain 

Round us for ever.^ 


Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 
Old gentlefolks are they, — 

Thou say'st an undisputed thing 
In such a solemn way. 


Our hearts will ne'er repose. 




Safe from each blast that blows. 


Thou art a female. Katydid 1 


In this dark vale of woes. 


I know it by the trill 


Never, no, never! 


That quivers through thy piercing notes, 




So petulant and shrill. 


When shall love freely flow, 


I think there is a knot of you 


Pure as life's river.' 


Beneath the hollow tree, — 


When shall sweet friendship glow, 


A knot of spinster Katydids, — 


Changeless for ever.? 


Do Katydids drink tea.? 


Where joys celestial thrill. 




Where bliss each heart shall fill, 
And fears of parting chill. 


O, tell me where did Katy live. 
And what did Katy do.? 


Never, no, never! 


And was she very fair and young, 




And yet so wicked too.? 


Up to that world of light, 


Did Katy love a naughty man. 


Take us, dear Saviour; 


Or kiss more cheeks than one.? 


There may we all unite, 


I warrant Katy did no more 


Happy for ever; 


Than many a Kate has done. 


Where kindred spirits dwell, 




There may our music swell, 


Oliver Wendell Holmes. 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE ARAB TO THE PALM 

Next to thee, O fair gazelle, 

O Beddovvee girl, beloved so well ; 

Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 

Whose fleetness shall bear me away to thee ; 

Next to je both I love the Palm, 

With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; 

Next to ye both I love the Tree 

Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 

With love and silence, and mystery ! 

Our tribe is many, our ports vie 

With any under the Arab sky ; 

Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 

The marble minarets that begem, 

Cairo's citadel-diadem 

Are not so light as his slender stem. 

He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance 
As the Almehs lift their arms in dance — 

A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, 
That works in the cells of his blood like wine. 

Full of passion and sorrow is he. 
Dreaming where the beloved may be. 

And where the warm south-winds arise 
He breathes his longing in fervid sighs — 

Quickening odors, kisses of balm 
That drop in the lap of his chosen palm, 
The suns may flame and the sands may stir. 
But the breath of his passion reaches her. 

O Tree of Life, by that love of thine. 
Teach me how I shall soften mine! 

Give me the secret of the Sun 
Whereby the wooed is always won! 

If I were a king, O stately Tree, 

A likeness glorious as may be. 

In the coiu-t of my Palace I'd build for thee ! 

With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, 
And leaves of beryl and malachite, 



With spikes of golden bloom ablaze, 
And points of topaz and chrysoprase: 

And there the poets, in my praise, 
Should night and morning frame there lays. 

New measures sung to tunes di\ine: 
But none, O Palm, shoidd equal mine! 

Bayard Taylor. 



THE FARM AND THE CONVENT. 

The stir ot morn is through the vale 
The crow of the cock, the wiietted scythe, 
The ringing of milk drops in the pail. 
The sheep dog's bark, the whistle blythe 
Of cheerful men fresh bathed in sleep; 
And sanctfying the day's sweet prime. 
Breaks from the hill the Convent's chime. 

Over the Convent garden's steep. 
The nun looks from her window small. 
And in the sunny farm below, 
She sees the busy housewife go, 
With a word, and,a look, and a hand for all 
'Mid babes and servants to and fro; 
But drawing her silenced children roimd 
And bowing her head as the matins sound. 
She looks and heaves a wistful sigh — 
O, swift the arrow of praise must fly. 
That is sped from the bow of work and love, 
From a happy home to an open sky. 
And is not prayer 'mid labour sweet.' 
As slumber in sickness, showers in heat.'' 

While to the long grey roofs above 
The housewife turns a lingering eye: 
O, sweet she thinks must be their life 
And nigh to heaven who dwell therein 
Where Heaven and Earth are not at strife. 
So smooth the race, and easy to win 
Where days are Sabbaths all, and prayer 
Is never crossed by a worldly care! — 

Anonymous. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



371 



THE SONG OF 187G 

Waken, voice of the land's devotion ! 
Spirit of freedom, awaken all! 
Ring, je shores, to the song of ocean, 

Rivers answer and mountains call ! 
The golden day has come ; 
Let every tongue be dumb 
That sounded its malice or murmured its 
fears ; 
She hath won her story, 
She wears her glory. 
We crown her the land of a hundred 
years. 

Out of darkness, and toil, and danger, 

Into the light of victory's day, 
Help to the weak and home to the stranger. 
Freedom to all, she hath held her 
way. 
Now Europe's orphans rest 
Upon her mother breast; 
The voices of nations are heard in the 
cheers 
That shall cast upon her. 
New love and honor, 
And crown her the queen of a hundred 
years ! 

North and South, we are met as brothers ; 
East and West, we are wedded as 
one I 
Right of each shall secure our mother's ; 
Child of each is her faithful son! 
We give thee heart and Hand, 
Our glorious native land. 
For battle has tried thee, and time endears ; 
We will write thy story. 
And keep thy glory 
As pure as of old for a thousand years! 
Bayard Taylor. 



EPITHALAMIUM. 

I SAW two clouds at morning. 
Tinged by the rising sun. 

And in the dawn they floated on, 
And mingled into one ; 



I thought that morning cloud was blest, 
It moved so sweetly to the west. 

I saw two summer currents 

Flow smoothly to their meeting. 

And join their course with silent force, 
In peace each other greeting; 

Calm was their course through banks of 
green, 

While dimpling eddies played between. 

Such be your gentle motion, 

Till life's last pulse shall b?at; 
Like summer's beam, and summer's 
stream. 
Float on, in joy, to meet 
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease — 
A purer sky, where all is peace. 

John G. C. Brainerd. 



UP HILL. 

Does the road wind up hill all the way.? 

2'es, to the very cud. 
Will the day's journey take the whole, long 
day.'" 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting place? 
A roof for when the slow, dark hours 
begin } 
May not the darkness hide it from my 
face .'' 
fou cannot miss that Inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night.? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just in 
sight.? 
They -will not keep you standing at that 
door! 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labor you shcdl find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who 
seek ? 

Yea, beds for all -who co7ne. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



373 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



JUNE. 

FROM "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL." 

Earth gets its price for wliat Earth gives 
us ; 

Tlie beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
The priest hath his fee who comes and 
shrives us, 

We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking: 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking; 
There is no price set on the lavish summer, 
And June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June.^ 

Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune. 

And over it softly her warm ear lays: 
Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and 
towers 
And, grasping blindly above it for light. 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The fmsh of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its 
chalice, 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too 
mean 

To be some poor creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

A-tilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters 

and sings; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her 

nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature, which song is 

the best.? 
Now is the high-tide of the year, 



And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, 
Into every bare inlet and creek and hay; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop over- 

fiUs it, 
We are happy now because God so wills it; 
No matter how barren the past may have 

been, 
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are 

green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right 

well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms 

swell; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help 

knowing 
The skies are clear and grass is growing; 
The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near. 
That maize has sprouted, that streams are 
flowing. 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard 

by; 
And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 
We could guess it all by yon heifer's low- 
ing,— 
And hark how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 
Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is happy now. 

Everything is upward striving; 
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to blue, — 

'Tis the natural way of living: 
Who knows whither the clouds have fled.-* 
In the unscarred heaven they leave no 
wake, 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache; 
The soul partakes the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and 
woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth 
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow, 

James Russell Lowell. 



OF PUETRT AND SONG. 



373 



"CHILDREN ARE GOD'S APOS- 
TLES." 

Children are God's apostles, day bv day 
Sent forth to preach of love, and hope, and 

peace ; 
Nor hath thy babe its mission left undone. 
To me, at least, his going hence hath given 
Serener thoughts and nearer to the skies, 
And opened a new foinitain in my heart 
For thee, my friend, and all ; and oh, if 

Death 
More near approaches, meditate'^, and 

clasps 
Even now some dearer, more reluctant 

hand, 
God, strengthen Thou my faith, that I mav 

see 
That 'tis Thine angel, who, with loving 

haste, 
Unto the service of the inner shrine 
Doth waken Thy beloved with a kiss. 

James Russell Lowell. 



THE GOLDEN GARDEN. 

Lo! we have told you of the golden gar- 
den 
Kept for the faithful, where the soil is 
still 
Wheat-flour and musk and camphire, and 
fruits hardened 
To what delicious savor each man will. 

Upon the Tooba tree; which bends its clus- 
ter 
To him that doth desire, bearing all 
meat; 
And of the sparkling fountains which out- 
lustre 
Diamonds and emeralds, running clear 
and sweet. 

Tasmin and Salsabil, whose lucent waters 
Are rich, delicious, undistracting wine; 



And of the Houris, pleasure's perfect 
daughters, 
Virgins of Paradise, whose black eyes 
shine 

Soul-deep with love and langour, having 
tresses 
Night-dark, with scents of the gold- 
blooming date 
And scarlet roses: lavishing caresses 
That satisfy, but never satiate; 

Whose looks refrain from any save their 
lover. 
Whose peerless limbs and bosoms' ivory 
swell 
Are like the ostrich egg which feathers 
cover 
From stain and dust, as white and round- 
ed well. 

Dwelling in marvelous pavilions, builded 
Of hollow pearls, where through a great 
light shines — 
Cooled by soft breezes and by glad suns 
gilded — 
On the green pillows where the Blest re- 
clines. 

Edvv^in Arnold. 



REPUTATION. 

Good name in man and woman, dear my 

Lord, 
Is the immediate jewel of their souls; 
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis 

something, nothing; 
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to 

thousands; 
But he that filches from me my good name 
Robs me of that which not enriches him. 
And makes me poor indeed. 

William Shakespeare. 



! ' 



374 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



TWO LOVERS. 

Two lovers by a moss-grown spring : 
Thej leaned soft cheeks together there, 
Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 
And heard the wooing thrushes sing, 
O budding time! 
O Love's blest prime! 

Two wedded from the portals stept: 
The bells made happy carollings. 
The air was soft as fanning wings, 
White petals on the pathway slept, 

O pure-eyed bride! 
O tender pride! 

Two faces o'er a cradle bent : 

Two hands above the head were locked, 
These pressed each other while they 
rocked. 
Those watched a lite that Love had sent, 
O solemn hour! 
O hidden power! 

Two parents by the evening fire : 
The red light fell about their knees 
On heads that rose by slow degrees 
Like buds upon the lily spire, 

O patient life! 
O tender strife! 

The two still sat together there: 

The red light shone about their knees, 
But all the heads by slow degrees 
Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
O voyage fast! 
O vanished past! 

The red light shone upon the floor, 

And made the space between them wide : 
They draw their chairs up side by side. 
Their pale cheeks joined and said " Once 
more !'' 

O memories! 
O past that is! 

George Eliot. 



OH! WHAT IS MAN.? 

Oh! what is man, great Maker of man 
kind! 
That Thou to him so great respect dost 
bear — 
That Thou adorn'st him with so bright a 
mind, 
Mak'st him a king, and even an angel's 
peer.? 

Oh! what a lively life, what heavenly 
power, 
What spreading virtue, what a sparkling 
fire! 
How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower 
Dost Tliou within this dying flesh in- 
spire ! 

Thou leav'st Thy print in other works of 
Thine, 
But Thy whole image Thou in man hast 
writ; 
There cannot be a creature more divine. 
Except, like Thee, it should be infinite. 

But it exceeds man's thought, to think how 
high 
God hath raised man, since God a man 
became ; 
The angels do admire this mystery. 

And are astonished when they view the 
same. 

Nor hath He given these blessings for a 
day, 
Nor made them on the body's life depend : 
The soul, though made in time, survives for 
aye. 
And though it hath beginning, sees no 
end. 

Sir John Davies. 




OF POETRY AND SONG. 



875 



THE ANGEL OF THE SCALES. 

Only one Judge is just, for only One 
Knoweth the hearts ot' men ; and hearts 

alone 
Are guilty or are guiltless. That which 

lied 
Was not the tongue — he is a red dog tied. 



And that which slew was not the hand ye 

saw 
Grasping the knife — she is a slave whose 

law 
The master gives, seated within the tent; 
The hand was handle to the instrument; 

The dark heart murdered. O believers ! 
leave 

Judgment to Heaven — except ye do re- 
ceive 

Office and order to accomplish this; 

Then honorable, and terrible, it is. 

The Prophet said : " At the great day of 

doom 
Such fear on the most upright judge shall 

come 
That he shall moan, ' Ah ! would to God 

that I 
Had stood for trial, and not sate to try! '" 

He said: "The Angel of the Scales will 

bring 
Just and unjust who judged before Heav'n's 

King, 
Graspmg them by the neck; and, if it be 
One hath adjudged his fellows wickedly, 

" He shall be hurled to hell so vast a height 
'Tis forty years' fierce journey ere he light; 
But if one righteously hath borne the rod, 
The angels kiss those lips which spake' for 
God." 

Edwin Arnold. 



AN EASTER CAROL. 

Spring bursts to-day. 

For Christ is risen and all the earth's at 
play. 

Flash forth, thou Sun, 

The rain is over and gone, its work is done. 

Winter is past. 

Sweet Spring is come at last, is come at 
last. 

Bud, Fig and Vine, 

y\.nd Olive, fat with fruit and oil and wine. 

Break forth this morn. 

In Ro!^es, ihou but yesterday a Thorn. 

Uplift thy head, 

O pure white Lily through the Winter 
dead. 

Beside your dams 

Leap and rejoice, you merry-making lambs. 

All herds and flocks 

Rejoice, all yeasts of thickets and of rocks. 

Sing, Creatures, sing, 

Angels and Men and Birds and everything. 

All notes of Doves 

Fill all our world: this is the tune of loves. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Leaning my bosom on a pointed thorn, 
I bleed, and bleeding sing my sweetest 

strain : 
For sweetest songs of saddest hearts are 

born, 
And who may here dissever love and 

pain. 

Archbishop Trench. 



37fi ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


THE CROSS OF CHRIST. 


"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think 




of the like. 


In the cross of Christ I glory, 

Towering o'er the wrecks of time ; 


For I half gave a promise to soothering 
Mike; 


All the light of sacred story 

Gathers round its dead sublime. 


The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be 
bound " — 


When the woes of life o'ertake me, 
Hopes deceive, and fears annoy, 

Never shall the cross forsake me: 
Lo! it glows with peace and joy. 


"Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you 

than the ground." 
"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go: 
Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating 

you so!" 


When the sun of bliss is beaming 


"Och !" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted 


Light and love upon my way, 


to hear, 


Froin the cross the radiance streaming. 


For dhrames always go by conthraries, my 


Adds new luster to the day. 


dear. 


Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure. 

By the cross are sanctified ; 
Peace is there, that knows no measure. 


Och ! jewel, keep dhraming that same till 

you die. 
And bright morning will give dirty night 

the black lie! 
And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to 


Joys that through all time abide. 


Sir John Bowking. 


be sure.' 




Since 't is all for good luck," savs bold Rory 
O'More. 


RORY O'MORE; 


OR, GOOD OMENS. 


"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teazed 
me enough ; 


Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen 


Sure, I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny 


Bawn; 


Grimes and Jim Duff; 


He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as 


And I've made myself, drinking your 


the dawn ; 


health, quite a baste. 


He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to 


So I think, after all, I may talk to the 


please, 


priest." 


And he thought the best way to do that 


Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 


that was to tease. 


her neck. 


"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen 


So soft and so white, without freckle or 


would cry. 


speck ; 


Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye; 


And he looked in her eyes, that were beam- 


"With your tricks, I don't know, in throth. 


ing with light. 


' what I'm about; 


And he kissed her sweet lips — Don't you 


Faith you've teased till I've put on mv 


think he was right.' 


cloak inside out." 


"Now, Rory, leave oft", sir — you'll hug me 


"Och ! jewel," says Rory, "the same is the 


no more, — 


way 


That's eight times to-day you have kissed 


You've thrated my heart for this many a 


me before." 


day ; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to 


"Then here goes another," says he, "to 
make sure. 


be sure.' 
For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory 


For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 
O'More. 


O'More. 


Samuel Lover. 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



377 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

Tme stately homes of England ! 

How beautiful they stand, 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land ! 
The deer across their greensward bound 

Through shade and sunny gleam, 
And the swan glides past them with the 
sound 

Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light! 
There woman s voice flows forth in song, 

Or childish tale is told, 
Or lips move tunel'ully along 

.Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed homes of England! 

How softly on their bowers 
.fe laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn ; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 

The cottage homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep. 

Each from its nook of leaves; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eves. 

The free, fair homes of England! 

Long, long in hut and hall 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall ! 
And green forever be the groves. 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God! 

Mrs. Hemans. 



SOLILOQUY: ON IMMORTALITY. 

FROM " CATO." 

Scene. — Cato, silting- in a thoughtful posture, with 
Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul in his 
hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him. 

Ii- must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest 

well! 
Else wiience this pleasing hope, this fond 

desire. 
This longing after immortality.? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward 

horror. 
Of falling into naught.' Why shrinks the 

soul 
Back on herself and startles at destruction.? 
'T is the divinity that stirs within us; 
'T is Heaven itself, that points out a here- 
after. 
And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful 

thought! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes, 

must we pass! 
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies 

before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest 

upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a power above 

us 
(And that there is all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works). He must delight in 

virtue; 
And that which He delights in must be 

happy. 
But when.? or where.? This world was 

made for Ca;sar. 
I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end 

them. 

\^fMying his hand on his sword. 
Thus am I doubly armed : my death and 

life. 
My bane and antidote are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point 



378 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age and Nature sink in 

years ; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amid the war of elements. 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of 

worlds ! 

Joseph Addison. 



THE DEEP. 

There's beauty in the deep: — 
The wave is bluer than the sky ; 
And, though the light shine bright on 

high, 
More softly do the sea-gems glow 
That sparkle in the depths below; 
The rainbow's tints are only made 
When on the waters they are laid. 
And sun and moon most sweetly shine 
Upon the ocean's level brine. 

There's beauty in the deep. 

There's music in the deep: — 
It is not in the surf's rough roar, 
Nor in the whispering, shelly shore — 
They are but earthly sounds, that tell 
How little of the sea-nymph's shell. 
That sends its loud, clear note abroad, 
Or winds its softness through the flood, 
Echoes through groves with coral gay, 
And dies, on spongy banks, away. 

There's music in the deep." 

There's quiet in the deep: — 
Above, let tides and tempests rave, 
And earth-born whirlwinds wake the wave ; 
Above, let care and fear contend. 
With sin and sorrow to tiie end : 
Here, far beneath the tainted foam. 
That frets above our peaceful home. 
We dream in joy, and wake in love. 
Nor know the rage that yells above. 

There's quiet in the deep. 

S. G. C. Brainerd. 



NIGHT. 

Night is the time for rest; 

How sweet when labors close, 
To gather round an aching breast 

The curtain of repose; 
Stretch the tired limbs and lav the head 
Upon our own delightful bed I 

Night is the time for dreams; 

The gay romance of life. 
When truth that is, and truth that seems, 

Blend in fantastic strife; 
Ah! visions less beguiling far 
Than waking dreams by daylight are. 

Night is the time for toil ; 

To plough the classic field. 
Intent to find the buried spoil 

Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
Till all is ours that sages taught, 
That poets sang, or heroes w^rought. 

Night is the time to weep; 

To wet with unseen tears 
Those graves of memory, where sleep 

The joys of other years; 
Hopes that were angels in their birth. 

But perished young, like things of earth! 

Night is the time to watch ; 

On ocean's dark expanse. 
To hail the Pleiades, or catch 

The full moon's earliest glance. 
That brings unto the homesick mind 

All we have loved and left behind. 

Night is the time for care ; 

Brooding on hours misspent; 
To see the spectre of despair 

Come to our lowly tent: 
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, 

Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost. 

Night is the time to muse; 

Then from the eye the soul 
Takes flight, and with expanding views 

Beyond the starry pole, 
Descries athwart the abyss of night. 
The dawn of uncreated light. 



OF POETRI 


AND SONG. 3~y 


Night is the time to praj: 


Oft I hear the angel voices 


Our Saviour oft withdrew 


That have thrilled me long ago, 
Voices of my lost companions. 


To desert mountains far away 


So will his followers do; 


Lying deep beneath the snow. 


Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 




And hold communion there with God. 


Where are now the flowers we tended.? 


Night is the time for death; 


Withered, broken, branch and stem ; 


When all around is peace, 


Where are now the hopes we cherished.? 


Calmly to yield the weary breath, — 


Scattered to the winds with them. 


From sin and suffering cease; — 


***** 


Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 




To parting friends: — such death be mine. 


O, I fling my spirit backward. 


James Montgomery. 


And I pass o'er years of pain ; 




All I love are rising round me. 
All the lost return again. 




THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 






Brighter, fairer far than living, 


It is the miller's daughter, 


With no trace of woe or pain ; 


And she is grown so dear, so dear, 


Robed in everlasting beauty. 


That I would be the jewel 


Shall I see thee once again.? 


That trembles at her ear; 




For, hid in ringlets day and night. 


By the light that never fadeth 


I'd touch her neck so warm and white, 


Underneath eternal skies, 


And I would be the girdle 


When the dawn of resurrection 


o 


Breaks o'er deathless Paradise, 


About her dainty, dainty waist, 




And her heart would beat against me 


William Edmonstoune Aytoune. 


In sorrow and in rest; 
And I should know if it beat right. 






I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 


CATARINA TO CAMOENS. 


And I would be the necklace. 


Dying in his absence abroad, and referring to the 


And all day long to fall and rise 


poem in which he recorded the sweetness of her 
eyes. 


Upon her balmy bosom 


With her laughter or her sighs; 


On the door ye will not enter 


And I would lie so light, so light. 


I have gazed too long — adieu! 


I scarce should be unclasped at night. 


Hope withdraws her peradventure — 




Death is near me, and noiyou! 


Alfred Tennyson. 


Come, O Lover! 




Close and cover 
These poor eyes you called, I ween. 




THE BURIED FLOWER. 


" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 




When I heard you sing that burden 


In the silence of my chamber, 


In my vernal days and bowers. 


When the night is still and deep, 


Other praises disregarding. 


And the drowsy heave of ocean 


I but hearkened that of yours, — 


Mutters in its charmed sleep. 


Only saying 




In heart-playing. 































:>^ 1 ILL US TRA TED 


HOME BOOK 








■ iKssed eyes mine eyes have been, 


Did you think in singing of it 








It the sweetest his have seen." 


That it might be near to go.^ 










But all changes. At this vesper, 
Cold the sun shines down the door; 

If you stood there, would you whisper 
" Love, I love you," as before, — 


Had you fancies 
From their glances, 
That the grave would quickly screen 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen.?" 










Death pervading 


No reply! The fountain's warble 










Now, and siiading 


In the court-yard sounds alone. 










E\ cs ycu sung of that yestreen. 


As the water to the marble 










As the sweetest ever seen? 


So my heart falls with a moan. 










Yes! I think, were you beside them, 


From love-sighing 

To th s dying! 
Death forerunneth Love, to win 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 










Near the bed I lie upon, — 
Though their beauty you denied them. 
As \ou stood there looking down, 










You would trulv 


IVill you come.' when I'm departed 










Call them duly 


Where all sweetnesses are hid — 










For the love's sake found therein, — 


When thy voice, my tender-hearted, 










" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


Will not lift up either lid. 










And it you looked liown ii]ion them, 
And if they looked up to you^ 

All the light which lias foregone them 
Would be gathered back anew! 


Cry, O Lover, 

Love is over! 
Cry beneath tlie cypress green — 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 










They would truly 


When the Angelus is ringing 










Be as duly 


Near the convent will you walk, 










Love-transformed to beauty's sheen, 


And recall the choral singing 










" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


Which brought angels down our talk.' 










But, ah me! you only see me 


Spirit-shriven 

I viewed Heaven, 










In your thoughts of loving man, 
Smiling soft perhaps and dreamy 
Through the wavings of my fan, — 


Till you smiled — is earth unclean, 
" Sweetest flowers ever seen." 










And unweeting 


When beneath the palace-lattice, 










Go repeating, ^ 


You ride slow as you have done. 










In your reverie serene — 


And you see a face there — that is 










" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


Not the old familiar one, — 










While my spirit leans and reaches 
From my body still and pale, 

Fain to hear what tender speech is 
In your love to help my bale — 


Will you oftly 

Murmur softly. 
Here ye watched me morn and e'en, 
Sweetest eyes were ever seen ! 










O my poet 

Come and show it ! 
Come of latest love to glean 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


When the palace ladies sitting 

Round 3'our gittern, shall have said 

" Poet, sing those verses written 
For the lady who is dead," 










O my poet, O my prophet. 

When you praised their sweetness so. 


Will you tremble 
Yet dissemble, — 
































I leaned nut o^ the window, I smelt the white clover, 

Dark, d.irk was the .srarden, I saw not the gate ; 
Now if there be footsteps, he comes my one lover — 
Hush, ni<i;htingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale wait 
Till I listen and hear, if a step draweth near; 
For my love, he is late ! 

Jean Ingelow, 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 383 




Or sing hoarse with tears between 


I will look out to his future — 


" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


I will bless it till it shine; 
Should he ever be a suitor 




Sweetest eyes! How sweet in flowings 


Unto sweeter eyes than mine. 




The repeated cadence is ! 


Sunshine gild them, 




Though jou sang a hundred poems, 


Angels shield them, 




Still the best one would be this. 


Whatsoever eyes terrene 




I can hear it 


Be the sweetest his have seen. 




' Twixt my spirit 
And the earth noise intervene — 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 




"Sweetest eyes were ever seen!" 






But the priest waits for the praying 
And the choir are on their knees, 


FIFTY YEARS AGO: 




And the soul must pass away in 

Strains niore solemn high than these! 


A grandsire's dream. 




Miserere 


I SIT within my ingle-nook. 




For the weary — 


So old and gray, I know ; 




Oh! no longer for Catrine 


I close my eyes and backward look ; 




" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


'Tis fifty years ago — 
Ere youth has fled, or hope is dead. 




Keep my riband, take and keep it, 


And life's sands running low. 




I have loosed it from my hair;* 


The Christmas bells are chiming sweet 




Feeling while you overweep it 


('Tis fifty years ago) — 




Not alone in your despair, 


There comes the fall of fairy feet 




Since with saintly 


Across the trackless snow ; 




Watch, unfaintly, 


And hearts beat high, to pleasures nigh. 




Out of Heaven shall o'er you lean 


Just fifty years ago. 




" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


From out the ivied manor-house 




But — but nom — yet unremoved 


I see a golden glow; 




Up to Heaven they glisten fast: 


And merry voices welcome us 




You may cast away, beloved 


('Tis fifty years ago) — 




In your future all my past. 


A laughing band stand hand in hand. 




Such old phrases 


A crowd pass to and fi-o. 




May be praises 
For some fairer bosom-queen — 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


In hall and homestead, great and small. 

Sing blithely as they go; 
The smile of one is smile of all 




Eyes of mine, what are ye doing? 


('Tis fifty years ago), 




Faithless, faithless — praised amiss. 


And hearts art ight and eyes are bright. 




If a tear be of your showing 


That Christmas long ago. 




Dropped for any hope of his ! 
Death hath boldness 
Besides coldness. 
If unworthy tears demean 
" Sweetest eyes were ever seen." 


A face looks out from wealth of hair, 
That waves o'er brow of snow ; 

And brown eyes droop with shyest air 
('Tis fifty years ago), 

And cheeks are flushed and voices hushed 
To whispers sweet and low. 




* She left him the riband from her hair. 

1 / 































384 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 








A kerchief crossed a swelling breast, 


THE OBLATION. 








The heart that throbbed below 












Grew restless with its own unrest; 


Ask nothing more of me sweet, 










For, ah, how could you know 


All I can give yon I give 










That I loved you, so well, so true, 


Heart of my heart, were it more. 










Just fifty years ago? 


More would be laid at your feet : 
Love that should help you to live. 










We trod a measure through the hall 


Song that should spur you to soar. 










With stately steps and slow — 












Once more I hear your footsteps tall ; 


All things were nothing to give 










Your bright cheeks brighter glow, 


Once to have sense of you more, 










And you are mine, by right divine, 


Touch you, and taste of you sweet, 










Of love — long years ago ! 


Think you, and breathe you, and live, 










Your dainty cap, your golden hair, 
Y(^ur muslin kerchief's snow; 


Swept of your wings as they soar. 
Trodden by chance of your feet. 










Your tiny feet that cross the stair 
Less swift than mine, I know; 

All these I see and hear, my dear, 
As fifty years ago. 


I that have love and no more 
Give you but love of you, sweet; 
He that hath more let him give ; 
He that hath wings let him soar; 










How fair you looked! How fond I loved! 
'Twa^ well it should be so; 


Mine is the heart at your feet 
Here that must love you to live. 










I gaze upon your picture now 
Till tears begin to flow; 


Algernon Charles Swinburne. 










And all the past is held as fast 
As fifty 3 ears ago. 


















Il is not fifty years — and time 


AUGUST. 










Has stayed for us, I know; 












We hear the merry Christmas chime, 


Hot July was drawing to an end. 










We see the falling snow; 


And August came the fainting year to 










And hand in hand so close we stand. 


mend 










My love of long ago. 


With fruit and grain; so 'neath the trellises* 
Nigh blossomless, did they lie well at ease, 










The voices sweet of friends who greet 


And watched the poppies burn across the 










Are close to me, I trow; 


grass, 










The fire-gleams dance in radiant heat, 


And o'er the bind weed's bells the brown 










The holly -berries glow: 


bee pass. 










I have but dreamt of days I've spent 


Still murmuring of his gains: windless and 










Since fifty years ago. 


bright 










****** 


The morn had been to help their dear 
delight. 










Alas, who stands demurely here. 


* * * * Then a light wind arose 










With eyes of tender glow. 


That shook the light stems of that fiowery 










So like the eyes of you, my dear. 


close. 










In days of long ago? 


And made men sigh for pleasure. 










She smiles' I ween, at grandsire's dream 












Of fifty years ago ! 


William Morris. 
































GRANDSIRE'S DREAM. 



OF POETR7- AND SONG. 



387 



BENEDICTE. 

God's love and peace be with thee, where 
Soe'er this sot't autumnal air 
Lit'ts the dark tresses of thy hair! 

Whether through city casement comes 
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
Or, out among the woodland blooms, 

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, 
Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 

Fair Nature's book together read, 

The old wood-paths that knew our tread. 

The maple shadows overhead, — 

The hills we climbed, the river seen 
By gleams along its deep ravine, — 
All kept thy memory fresh and green. 

Where'er I look, where'er I stray, 
Thy thought goes with me on my way, 
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day : 

O'er lapse of time and change of scene. 
The weary waste which lies between 
Thyself and me, my heart I lean. 

Thoulack'st not Friendship's spell word, nor 
The half-unconscious power to draw 
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 

With these good gifts of God is cast 
Tiiy lot, and many a charm thou hast 
To hold the blessed angels fast. 

If, then, a fervent wish for thee 

The gracious heavens will heed from me, 

What should, dear heart, its burden be? 

The sighing of a shaken reed, — 
What can I more than meekly plead 
The greatness of our common need? 



God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, — 
The Paraclete white shining through 
His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew! 

With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
As thou mayest hear and I may say, 
I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



"JESUS TOOK HIM BY THE HA.ND." 

" And He took the damsel by the hand, and said 
unto her, Talitha ciimi." — Mark v., 41. 

The sufferer had been heard to sav, 
" I am the unhappiest in the land;" 

But comforted went on his way. 
When Jesus took him by the hand. 

The poor man had been oft passed by 
By many people rich and grand ; 

But found at last prosperitv. 

When Jesus took him by the hand. 

The sinner in unpitied blame 

Was perishing, an outcast banned; 

But rose, and left behind his shame, 
When Jesus took him by the hand. 

And many of whom all men said, 

" They've fallen never more to stand," 

Have risen, though they seemed as dead 
When Jesus took them by the hand. 

O ye, who in the journey's length 
Must often tread the weary sand, 

Your fainting lips will gather strength. 
If Jesus takes you by the hand. 

" Come unto Me," the Saviour cries. 
Nor speaks in accents falsely bland : 

" Hard is the way," He says, " but rise;" 
And then He takes us by the hand. 

Thomas T. Lynch, 



388 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



HEATHEN CHINEE: — OR, PLAIN 

LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL 

JAMES. 

Which I wish to remark, — 

And my language is plain, — 
That for ways that are dark, 
And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 
Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin Avas his name; 
And I shall not deny 
In regard to the same 

What that name might imply. 
But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 
As I frequently remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third. 

And quite soft was the skies ; 
Which it might be inferred 
That Ah Sin was likewise; 
Yet he played it that day upon William 
And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand: 
It was Euchre. The same 
He did not understand ; 
But he smiled as he sat by the table, 
With a smile that was childlike and bland. 

Yet the cards they were stocked 

In a way that I grieve, 
And my feelings were shocked 
At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
Which was stufted full of aces and bowers. 
And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 

By that heathen Chinee, 
And the points that he made 
Were quite frightful to see, — 
Till at last he put down a right bower, 
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me; 
And he rose with a sigh. 

And said, " Can this be.'' 



We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," 
And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 
I did not take a hand, 
But the floor it was strewed 
Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had beei> 

hiding 
In the game he " did not understand." 

In his sleeves, which were long. 

He had twenty-four packs, — 
Which was coming it strong, 
Yet I state but the facts ; 
And we found on his nails, which were 

taper, 
What is frequent in tapers, — that's vax. 

Which is why I remark. 

And my language is plain, 
That for ways that are dark, 
And for tricks that are vain, 
The heathen Chinee is peculiar. 
Which the same I am free to maintain. 

F. Bret Harte^ 



HER VOICE. 

The wild bee reels from bough to bough 
With his furry coat and his gauzy wing. 
Now in a lily-cup, and now 
Setting a jacinth bell a-swing, 
In his wandering; 
Sit closer love : it was here I trow 
I made that vow. 

Swore that two lives should be like one 
As long as the sea-gull loved the sea. 
As long as the sunflower sought the sun — 
It shall be, I said, for eternity 
'Twixt you and me ! 
Dear friend, those times are over and done^ 
Love's web is spun. 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



389 



Look upward wliere the poplar trees 
Sway and sway in the summer air, 
Here in the valley never a breeze 
Scatters the thistledown, but there 
Great winds blow fair 
From the mighty murmuring mystical seas, 
And the wave-lashed leas. 

Look upward where the white gull 
screams, 
What does it see that we do not see? 
Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams 

On some outward voyaging argosy, 

Ah ! can it be 
We have lived our lives in a land of dreams ! 
How sad it seems. 

Sweet, there is nothing left to say 
But this, that love is never lost. 
Keen winter stabs the breast of May 
Whose crimson roses burst his frost, 
Ships tempest-tossed 
We find a harbor in some bay, 
And so we may. 

And there is nothing left to do 

But to kiss once again, and part. 
Nay, there is nothing we should rue, 
I have my beauty, — you your Art, 
Nay, do not start. 
One world was not enough for two 
Like me and you. 

Oscar Wilde. 



A LOST CHORD. 

Seated one day at the organ, 
I was weary and ill at ease. 

And my fingers wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys. 

I do not know what I was playing, 
Or what I was dreaming then. 

But I struck one chord of music. 
Like the sound of a great amen. 



It flooded the crimson twilight, 
Like the close of an angel's psalm. 

And it lay on my fevered spirit. 
With a touch of infinite calm. 

It quieted pain and sorrow, 
Like love overcoming strife; 

It seemed the harmonious echo 
From our discordant life. 

It linked all perplexed meanings 

Into one perfect peace. 
And trembled away into silence. 

As if it were loath to cease. 

I have sought, but I seek it vainly. 
That one lost chord divine. 

That came from the soul of the organ, 
And entered into mine. 

It may be that death's bright angel 
Will speak in that chord again; 

It may be that only in lieaven 
I shall hear that grand amen. 

Adelaide Axne Procter. 



ETERNAL JUSTICE. 

The man is thought a knave or fool, 

Or bigot, plotting crime. 
Who, for the advancement of his kind, 

Is wiser than his time. 
For him the hemlock shall distil; 

For him the axe be bared ; 
For him the gibbet shall be built; 

For him the stake prepared : 
Him shall the scorn and wrath of men 

Pursue with deadly aim; 
And malice, envy, spite and lies. 

Shall desecrate his name. 
But truth shall conquer at the last. 

For round and round we run, 
And ever the right comes uppermost, 

And ever is justice done. 



390 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, 


They may curse it and call it crime; 


Cheerily to and fro; 


Pervert and betray, or slander and slay 


Trust to the impulse of thy soul 


Its teachers for a time. 


And let the poison flow. 


But the sunshine aye shall light the sky, 


They may scatter to earth the lamp of 


As round and round we run, 


clay 


And the truth shall ever come uppermost. 


That holds a light divine, 


And justice shall be done. • 


But they cannot quench the fire of thought 




By any such deadly wine; 


And live there notv such men as these — 


They cannot blot thy spoken words 


With thoughts like the great of old? 


From the memory of man. 


Many have died in their misery. 


By all the poison ever was brewed 


And left their thoughts untold; 


Since time its course began. 


And many live and are ranked as mad, 


To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored, 


And placed in the cold world's ban, 1 


So round and round we run. 


For sending their bright far-seeing souls 


And ever the truth comes uppermost. 


Three centuries in the van. 


And ever is justice done. 


They toil in penury and grief, 




Unknown, if not maligned; 


Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite: 


Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn 


Be wiser than thy peers; 


Of the meanest of mankind, 


Augment the range of human power. 


But yet the world goes round and round, 


And trust to coming years. 


And the genial seasons run. 


They may call thee wizard, and monk 


And ever the truth comes uppermost, 


accursed. 


And ever is justice done. 


And load thee with dispraise: 




Thou wert born five hundred years too 


Charles Mackay. 


soon 




For the comfort of thy days. 
But not too soon for human kind: 






Time hath reward in store; 




And the demons of our sires become 


EVELYN HOPE. 


The saints that we adore. 




The blind can see, the slave is lord; 


Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 


So round and round we run. 


Sit and watch by her side an hour. 


And ever the wrong is proved to be wrong. 


That is her book-shelf, this is her bed; 


And ever is justice done. 


She plucked that piece of geranium- 




flower. 


Keep, Galileo, to thy thought. 


Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 


And nerve thy soul to bear; 


Little has yet been changed, I think ; 


They may gloat o'er the senseless words 


The shutters are shut, — no light may pass 


they wring 


Save two long rays through the hinge's 


From the pangs of thy despair : 


chink. 


They may veil their eyes, but they can- 




not hide 


Sixteen years old when she died ! 


The sun's meridian glow; 


Perhaps she had scarcely heard my | 


The heel of a priest may tread thee down, 


name, — 


And a tyrant work thee woe; 


It was not her time to love; beside. 


But never a truth has been destroyed: 


Her life had many a hope and aim, 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



391 



Duties enough and little cares: 
And now was quiet, now astir, — 

Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 

What! your soul was pure and true; 
The good stars met in your horoscope. 

Made you of spirit, fire, and dew ; 
And just because I was thrice as old, 
- And our paths in the world diverged so 

wide, 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 
We are fellow-mortals, — naught beside? 

No, indeed ! for God above 

Is great to grant as mighty to make. 
And creates the love to reward the love; 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 
Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
few; 
Much is to learn and much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come — at last it will — 
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall 
say, 
In the lower earth, — in the years long still, — 

That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 
And your mouth of your own geranium's 
red, — 
And what you would do with me, in fine. 
In the new life come in the old one's 
stead. 

I have lived, I shall say, so much since 
then. 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full 
scope. 

Either I missed or itself missed me, — 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue? let us see! 



I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 

My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
There was place and to spare for the frank 
young smile, 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's 
young gold. 
So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; 
See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
There, that is our secret! go to sleep; 
You will wake, and remember, and un- 
derstand. 

Robert Browning. 



IF I DESIRE WITH 
SONGS. 



PLEASANT 



If I desire with pleasant songs 

To throw a merry hour away. 
Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 

In careful tale he doth display, 
And asks me how I stand for singing, 
While I my helpless hands am wringing. 

And then another time, if I 

A noon in shady bower would pass, 

Comes he with stealthy gestures sly, 
And flinging down upon the grass, 

Quoth he to me : My master dear. 

Think of this noontide such a year! 

And if elsewhere I lay vc\y head 
On pillow, with intent to sleep. 

Lies Love beside me on the bed. 

And gives me ancient words to keep; 

Says he : These looks, these tokens num- 
ber — 

May be, they'll help you to a slumber. 

So every time when I would yield 
An hour to quiet, comes he still; 

And hunts up every sign concealed, 
And every outward sign of ill ; 

And gives me his sad face's pleasures 

For merriment's, or sleep's, or leisure's. 

Thomas Burbidge. 



392 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



LOVE. 

There lived a singer in France of old 

By- the tideless, dolorous, midland sea. 
In a land of sand and ruin and gold 

There shone one woman, and none but 
she. 
And finding life for her love's sake fail. 
Being fain to see, he bade set sail, 
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold, 
And praised God, seeing; and so died he. 

Died, praising God for His gift and grace : 
For she bowed down to him weepingi 
and said, 
" Live ;" and her tears were shed on his face 

Or ever the life in his face was shed. 
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and 

stung 
Once, and her close lips touched him and 

clung 
Once, and grew one with his lips for a 
space ; 
And so drew back, the man was dead. 

O brother, the gods were good to you. 
Sleep, and be glad while the world en- 
dures. 
Be well content as the years wear through ; 
Give thanks for life, and the loves and 
lures; 
Give thanks for life, O brother, and death, 
For the sweet last sound of her feet, her 

breath. 
For gifts she gave you, gracious and few. 
Tears and kisses, that lady of yours. 

Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I, 

How shall I praise them, or how take 
rest.' 

There is not room under all the sky 
For me that know not of worst or best. 

Dream or desire of the days before, 

Sweet things or bitterness, any more. 

Love will not come to me now though I die. 
As love came close to you, breast to 
breast. 



I shall never be friends again with roses; 

I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note 

grown strong 

Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes, 

Asa wave of the sea turned back by song. 

There are sounds where the soul's delight 

takes fire, 
Face to face with its own desire ; 
A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes; 
I shall hate sweet inusic my whole life 
long. 

The pulse of war and passion of wonder, 
The heavens that murmur, the sounds 
that shine. 
The stars that sing and the loves that thun- 
der. 
The music burning at heart like wine. 
An armed archangel whose hands raise up 
All senses inixed in the spirit's cup. 
Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder, — 
These things are over, and no more mine. 

These were a part of the playing I heard 
Once, ere my love and mv heart were at 
strife; 
Love that sings and hath wings as a bird. 

Balm of the wound and heft of the knife. 
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep 
Than overwatching of eyes that weep. 
Now time has done with his one sweet 
word. 
The wine and leaven of lovely life. 

I shall go my ways, tread out my measure, 
Fill the days of my daily breath 

With fugitive things not good to treasure. 
Do as the world doth, say as it saith ; 

But if we had loved each other — O sweet. 

Had you felt, lying under the palms of your 
feet. 

The heart of my heart, beating harder with 
pleasure 
To feel 3'ou tread it to dust and death. 

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given 
All that life gives and the years let go, 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



393 



The wine and money, the bahn and leaven, 
The dreams reared high and the hopes 
brought low, 
Come life, come death, not a word be said; 
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead? 
I shall never tell you on earth; and in 
. heaven. 
If I cry to you then, will you hear or 
know? 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



EASTER. 

Rise, heart! thy Lord is risen. Sing His 
praise 

Without delays 
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou like- 
wise 

With Him mayst rise — 
That, as His death calcined thee to dust. 
His life may make thee gold, and much 
more just. 

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part 

With all thy art! 
The cross taught all wood to resound His 
name 

Who bore the same; 
His stretched sinews taught all sti-ingswhat 

key 
Is best to celebrate this most high day. 

Consort both harp and lute, and twist a song 
Pleasant and long! 

Or since all music is but three parts vied 
And multiplied. 

Oh let thy blessed Spirit bear a part. 

And make up our defects with His sweet 
art. 

I got me flowers to strew Thy way — 
I got me boughs oft" many a tree ; 
But Thou wast up by break of day, 
Andbroughtst Thy sweets along with Thee. 



The sun arising in tlie east, 

Though he give light, and th' east perfume, 

If they should offer to contest 

With Thy arising, they presume. 

Can there be any day but this. 
Though many suns to shine endeavor? 
We count three hundred, but we miss — 
There is but one, and that one ever. 

George Hekbert. 



THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE 

Tears, idle tears! I know not what they 
mean. 
Tears, from the depth of some divine des- 
pair, 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields. 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a 
sail 
That brings our friends up from the under- 
world ; 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge 
So sad, so fresh, the davs that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering 

square : 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no 

more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 

feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
O death in life! the days that are no more. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



394 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



WHO ARE THE FREE. 

Who are the Free? 
They who have scorned the tyrant and his 

rod, 
And bowed in worship unto none but God ; 
They who liave made the conqueror's glory 

dim, 
Unchained in soul, though manacled in 

limb, 
Unwarped by perjudice, unawed by wrong, 
Friends of the weak, and tearless of the 

strong ; 
They who could change not with ihe 

changing hour. 
The self-same men in peril and in power; 
True to the law of right, as warmly prone 
To grant another's as maintain their own; 
Foes of oppression, wheresoe'er it be; — 
These are the proudly free ! 

Who are the Great? 

They who have boldly ventured to explore 

Unsounded seas, and lands unknown be- 
fore ; 

Soared on the wings of science, wide and 
far. 

Measured the sun, and weighed each dis- 
tant star: 

Pierced the dark depths of ocean and of 
earth. 

And brought uncounted wonders into birth ; 

Repelled the pestilence, restrained the 
storm, 

And given new beauty to the human form ; 

Waken'd the voice of reason and unfurled 

The page of truthful knowledge to the 
world : 

They who have toiled and studied for man 
kind. 

Aroused the slumbering virtues of the 
mind ; 

Taught us a thousand blessings to create; — 
These are the nobly great! 

Who are the Wise? 
They who have governed with a self con- 
trol. 



Each wild and baneful passion of the soul ; 

Curbed the strong impulse of all fierce 
desires. 

But kept alive affection's purer fires: 

They who have passed the labyrinth of 
life. 

Without one hour of weakness or of 
strife ; 

Prepared each change of fortune to en- 
dure, — 

Humble though rich, and dignified though 
poor. 

Skilled in the latent movements of the 
heart. 

Learned in the love which nature can im- 
part, — 

Teaching that sweet philosophy aloud. 

Which sees the " silver lining " of the 
cloud, 

Looking for good in all beneath the skies; — 
These are the truly wise! 

Who are the Blest? 
They who' have kept their sympathies 

awake. 
And scattered joy for more than custom's 

sake; 
Steadfast and tender in the hour of need, 
Gentle in thought, benevolent in deed ; 
Whose looks have power to make dissen- 
sion cease. 
Whose smiles are pleasant] and whose 

words are peace ; 
They who have lived as harmless as the 

dove. 
Teachers of truth and ministers of love; — 
Love for all moral power, all mental grace — 
Love for the humblest of the human race — 
Love for that tranquil joy that virtue 

brings — 
Love for the Giver of all goodly things; 
True followers of that soul-exalting plan 
Which Christ laid down to bless and gov- 
ern man; 
They who can calmly linger to the last, 
Survey the future and recall the past. 
And with that hope which triumphs ovei 
pain, — 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 395. 


Full well assured they liave not lived in 


Aw know when furst aw coom to th' leet 


vain — 
Then wait in peace their hour of final 


Aw're fond o' owt 'at tasted sweet; 
Tha'll be th' same. 


rest ; — 

These are the only blest ! 


But come, tha's never towd thi dad 
What he's to co thi yet, mi lad — 


John C. Prince. 


What's thi name.? 




Hush! hush! tha munno cry this way. 
But get this sope o' cinder tay 




WELCOME BONNY BIRD. 


While it's warm; 
Mi mother used to give it me, 


Tha'rt welcome, little bonnie brid, 

But shouldn't ha' come just when tha did; 


When aw wur sich as lad as thee. 
In her arm. 


Toimes are bad. 




We're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe, 
But that, of course, tha didn't know, 
Did ta, lad.? 


Hush a babby, hush a bee — 
Oh, what a temper! dear a-me 
Heaw tha skroikes: 


Aw've often yeard mi feyther tell, 
'At when aw coom i' th' world misel 
Trade wur slack; 


Hear's a bit o' sugar, sithee; 
Howd thi noise, an' then aw'll gie thee 
Owt tha loikes. 


An' neaw it's hard wark pooin' throo — 




But aw munno fear thee; iv aw do 


We'n nobbut getten coarsish fare. 


Tha' 11 go back. 


But eawt o' this tha 'st ha' thi share. 




Never fear. 


Cheer up! these toimes 'ull awter soon; 


Aw hope tha'll never want a meel. 


Aw'm beawn to beigh another spoon — 
One for thee ; 


But alius fill thi bally weel 
While tha'rt here. 


An' as tha's sich a pratty face, 




Aw'll let thee hauve eawr Charley's place 
On my knee. 

God bless thee, love, aw'm fain tha'rt come. 
Just try an' mak thisel awhoam : 

What ar't co'd.'' 
Tha'rt loike thi mother to a tee. 


Thi feyther's noan bin wed so long, 
An' yet tha sees he's middlin' throng 

Wi' yo' o : 
Besides thi little brother, Ted, 
We'n one up-staers, asleep i' bed 

Wi' eawr Joe. 


But tha's thi feyther's nose, aw see, 




Well, aw'm blovv'd! 


But though we'n childer two or three. 




We'll mak' a bit o' reawm for thee — 


Come, coine, tha needn't look so shy, 


Bless thee, lad! 


Aw am no' blackin' thee, not I ; 


Tha'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest;. 


Settle deawn. 


Come, hutch up closer to mi breast — 


An' tak this haup'ney for thisel', 


Aw'm thi dad. 


There's lots o' sugar sticks to sell 




wn i' til' teavvn. 


Samuel Laycock.. 



396 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



OF MY.SELF. 

This only grant me, that mj means may 

lie 
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 

Some honor I would have. 
Not from great deeds, but good alone; 
The unknown are better than ill known : 

Rumor can ope the grave. 
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't 

depends 
Not on the number, but the choice, of 

friends. 

Books should, not business, entertain the 
light. 

And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the 
night. 
My house a cottage more 

Than palace; and should fitting be 

For all my use, no luxury. 
My garden painted o'er 

With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleas- 
ures yield, 

■Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 

Thus would I double my life's fading 

space; 
For he that runs it well twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight. 
These unbought sports, this happy state, 
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate; 

But boldly say each night. 
To-morrow let my sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to- 
day. 

Abraham Cowley. 



ART THOU WEARY.? 

Art thou weary.'' art thou languid.'* 

Art thou sore distrest? 
" Come to me," saith One, " and coming 
Be at rest!" 

Hath He marks to lead me to Him, 
If He be my guide.? 



" In His feet and hands are wound-prints, 
And His side!" 

Is there diadem, as Monarch, 

That His brow adorns.? 
" Yea, a crown, in very surety. 
But of thorns!" 

If I find Him, if I follow. 

What His guerdon here.? 
'• Many a sorrow, many a labor. 
Many a tear." 

If I still hold closely to Him, 

What hath He at last.? 
" Sorrow vanquished, labor ended, 
Jordan past!" 

If I ask Him to receive me, 

Will He say me nay.? 
" Not till earth, and not till heaven 
Pass away!" 

Stephen of Sabas. 



CONTENT. 

FROM "FAREWELL TO FOLLIE," 1617. 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of con- 
tent; 
The quiet mind is richer than a crown; 

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 
spent, — 
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry 
frown : 

Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
such bliss, 

Beggars enjov, when princes oft do miss. 

The homely house that harbors quiet rest. 

The cottage that affords no pride or care, 
The mean, that 'grees with country music 
best. 
The sweet consort of mirth's and music's 
fare. 
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss; 
A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 

Robert Greene. 



SWEET, BE NOT PROUD. 

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, 
Which starhke sparkle in their skies; 
Nor be you proud that you can see 
All hearts your captives, yours vet free. 
Be you not proud of that rich hair. 
Which wantons with the love sick air; 
When as that ruby which you wear. 
Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, 
Will last to be a precious stone 
When all your world of beauty's gone. 

Robert Herrick. 



4 



MEMORY. 

This little poem from the pen of the late Presi- 
■dent was wntien before his first terra in Congress- 
some twenty years a^o. At tliat time possibly the 
Presidency of a Christian coUeg-e was the " summit 
where the sunbeams fell," and the last lines are all 
but a prophecy. 

'Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly 

down 
Upon the Earth, decked in her robe of 

snow. 
No light gleams at the window, save my 

own 
"Which gives its cheer to midnight and to 

lue. 
And now, with noiseless step, sweet Mem- 
ory comes 
And leads me gently through her twilight 

realms. 
What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung, 
Or delicate pencil e'er portrayed, 
The enchanted, shadowy land where Mem- 
ory dwells.? 
Tt has its valleys, cheerless, lone and drear, 
Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress 

tree ; 
And yet its sunlight mountain-tops are 

bathed 
In Heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy 

cliffs. 
Robed in the dreamy light of distant years. 
Are clustered joys serene of other days. 



Upon its gentle, sloping hillside bend 
The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust 
Of dear departed ones; and yet in that land, 
Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore, 
They that were sleeping rise from out the 

dust 
Of Death's long, silent years, and 'round 

us stand. 
As first they did before the prison-tomb 
Receivea their clay within its voiceless 

halls. 
The heavens that bend above that land are 

hung 
With clouds of various hues. Some dark 

and chill, 
Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre 

shade 
Upon the sunny, joyous land below. 
Others are floating through the dreamy air, 
White as the falling snow, their margins 

tinged 
With gold and crimsoned hues; their 

shadows fall 
Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, 
Soft as the shadow of an Angel's wino-. 
When the rough battle of the day is done, 
And Evening's peace falls gently on the 

heart, 
I bound away, across the noisy years. 
Unto the utmost verge of Memory's land. 
Where earth and sky in dreamy distance 

meet. 
And Memory dim with dark oblivion joins. 
Where woke the first remembered sounds 

that fell 
Upon the ear in childhood's earlv morn; 
And, wandering thence along the rolling 

years 
I see the shadow of my former self 
Gliding from childhood up to man's estate. 
The path of youth winds down through 

many a vale, 
And on the brink of many a dread abyss. 
From out whose darkness comes no ray of 

light. 
Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf 
And beckons toward the verge. Again the 
path 




Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams 

fall; 
And thus in light, and sunshine, and gloom, 
Sorrow and joy, this life-path leads along. 

James A. Garfield. 



OBSCURE MARTYRS. 

" The world knows nothing of its greatest men." 
Dr. Arnold. 

They have no place in storied page. 

No rest in marble shrine ; 
They are past and gone with a buried age. 
They died and made no sign 
But work, that shall find its wages yet, 
And deeds that their God will not forget, 

Done for the love Divine. 
These were their mourners and these shall 

be 
The crowns of their Immortality. 

Oh ! seek them not where sleep the dead. 

Ye shall not find their trace; 
No graven stone is at their head. 
No green grass hides their face, 
But sad, and unseen in their silent grave 
It may be the sand or the deep sea- wave. 

Or a lonely desert place : 
For they needed no prayers and no mourn- 
ing bell, 
They were tomb'd in the true hearts that 
knew them well. 

They healed sick hearts, still theirs were 
broken 

And dried sad eyes till theirs lost sight. 

We shall know them again by a certain 
token. 

How they fought and fell in the fight. 

Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld, and passion- 
ate cries unchronicled. 
And silent strifes for the right. 

Angels shall count them, and earth shall 
sigh 

That she left her best children to battle 
and die. 

AXOXYMOUS. 



SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. 

FROM " HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK." 

Hamlet. To be, or not to be, — that is the 

question : — 
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The stings and arrows of outrageous for- 
tune. 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles. 
And by opposing, end them.' — To die, — tO' 

sleep ; — 
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural 

shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation) 
Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to- 

sleep; — 
To sleep! perchance to dream: — ay there's 

the rub; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams 

may come, 
When we have shufliled off this mortal coil,, 
Must give us pause : there's the respect 
That makes calamity of so long life; 
For who would bear the whips and scorns. 

of time, 
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's 

contumely. 
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay^ 
The insolence of office, and the spurns 
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,. 
When he himself mighfe his quietus make 
With a bare bodkin.? who would fardels 

bear, 
To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 
But that the dread of something after 

death, — 
That undiscovered country from whose 

bourn 
No traveler returns, — puzzles the will, 
And makes us rather bear those ills we 

have. 
Than fly to others that Ave know not of ? 
Thus conscience does m-ike cowards of us 

all; 
And thus the native hue of resolution 
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of 
thought; 




SWEE'l, BE AOV PROUD. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



40t 



And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
With this regard their currents turn awry, 
And lose the name of action. 

Shakespeare. 



LUCIFER'S SERMON! 

I am a preacher come to tell ye truth. 

I tell ye there is no time to be lost; 

So fold your souls up neatly, while ye 

may ; 
Direct to God in Heaven ; or some one else 
May seize them, seal them, send them-- 

you know where. 
The world must end. I weep to think of it. 
But you, you laugh ! I knew ye would. I 

know 
Men never will be wise till they are fools 
Forever. Laugh away! The time will 

come, 
When tears of fire are trickling from your 

eyes. 
Ye will blame yourselves for having 

laughed at me. 
I warn ye men : prepare ! repent ! be saved ! 
I warn ye, not because I love but know ye. 
God will dissolve the world, as she of old 
Her pearl, within His cup and swallow ve 
In wrath: although to taste ye would be 

poison. 
And death and suicide to aught but God. 
Again I warn ye. Save himself who can ! 

I pray you, I beg. 
Act with some smack of justice to your 

Maker, 
If not unto yourselves. Do. It is enough 
To make the very Devil chide mankind — 
Such baseness, such unthankfulness ! why 

he 
Thanks God he is no worse! You don't do 

that. 
I say be just to God. Leave off these airs : 
Know your place; speak to God — and say 

for once, 



Go first, Lord! Take your finger off your 

eye, 
It blocks the universe and God from sight. 
Think ye your souls are worth nothing to 

God.? 
Are they so small } What can be great 

with God } 
What will ye weigh against the Lord.' 

Yourselves.? 
Bring out your balance : get in man by 

man: 
Add earth, hell, heaven, the universe; 

that's all ! 
God puts his finger in the other scale. 
And up we bounce a bubble. Naught is 

great 
Nor small with God — for none but He can 

make 
The atom indivisible, and none 
But He can make a world: He counts the 

orbs. 
He counts the atoms of the universe, 
i\.nd makes both equal — both are infinite, 
Giving God honor, never underrate 
Yourselves: after Him ye are everything. 
But mind, God's more than everything. 

He is God. 
Men say — as proud as Lucifer — 
Pray who would not be proud with such a 

train .^ 
Hath He not all the honor of the earth.? 
Why Mammon sits before a thousand 

hearths 
Where God is bolted out from every house. 
Well might He say He cometh as a thief ; 
For He will break your bars and burst 

your doors 
Which slammed against Him once, and 

turn ye out. 
Roofless and shivering 'neath the doom 

storm ; 

Heaven shall crack above ye like a bell on 

fire 
And bury all beneath its shining shards. 

Philip James Bailey. 



409 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


WE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


The last fair angel lingering on our earth, 




The shadow of that thought obscures 


We might have been! these are but com- 


the vision ; 


mon words, 


We might have been! 


And yet thej make the sum of life's be- 




wailing; 


A cold fatality attends on love. 


Thev are the echo of those finer chords. 


Too soon or else too late the heart-beat 


Whose music life deplores when unavail- 


quickens; 


ing. 


The star which is our fiite springs up above, 


We might have been ! 


And we but say, while round the vapor 




thickens, 


"We might have been so happy! says the 


We might have been! 


child. 




Pent in the weary school-room during 


Life knoweth no like misery; the rest 


summer, 


Are single sorrows, but in this are blend- 


When the green rushes mid the marshes 


ed 


wild. 


All sweet emotions that disturb the breast; 


And rosy fruits, attend the radiant comer. 


The light that was our loveliest is ended. 


We might have been! 


We might have been! 


It is the thought that darkens on our youth. 


Henceforth, how much of the full heart 


When first experience, sad experience, 


:nust be 


teaches 


A sealed book at whose contents we 


What fallacies we have believed for truth. 


tremble.^ 


And what few truths endeavor ever 


A still voice inutters mid our misery. 


reaches. 


The worst to hear, because it must dis- 


We might have been ! 


semble — 


Alas! how different from what we are 


We might have been! 


Had Ave but known the bitter path before 


Life is made up of miserable hours. 


us; 

But feelings, hopes, and fancies lefl afar. 
What in the wide bleak world can e'er 
restore us.'' 

We might have been! 


And all of which we craved a brief pos- 
sessing. 
For which we wasted wishes, hopes, and 
powers. 

Comes with some fatal drawback on the 


It is the motto of all human things. 

The end of all that waits on mortal seek- 


blessing. 

We might have been ! 


ing; 
The weary weight upon Hope's flagging 
wings, 


The future never renders to the past 

The young beliefs entrusted to its keep- 


It js the cry of the worn heart while 
breaking — 


ing; 
Inscribe one sentence — life's first truth and 


We might have been ! 


last — 
On the pale marble where our dust is j 


And when, warm with the heaven that gave 


sleeping — 


it birth. 


We might have been! 


Dawns on our world-worn way Love's 
hour Elysian, 


Letitia E. Landon. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



403 



THE MOCKING-BIRD. 

Once Paumanok, 

When the snow had melted, and the Fifth- 
month grass was growing, 

L'p this sea-shore, in some briars 

Two guests from Alabama, — two together, 

And their nest, and four light-green eggs, 
spotted with brown, 

And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near 
at hand, 

And every day the she-bird crouched on 
her nest, silent, with bright eyes. 

And every day I, a curious boy, never too 
close, never disturbing them, 

Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating. 



"Shine! Shine! Shine! 
Pour down your warmth, great Sun ! 
While we bask — we two together. 



" Two together ! 
Winds blow south, or winds blow north. 
Day come white, or night come black. 
Home, or rivers and mountains from home. 
Singing all time, minding no time 
If we two but keep together." 



Till, of a sudden, 
May be killed, unknown to her mate, 
One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on 

her nest. 
Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next 
Nor ever appeared again. 



And thenceforward, all summer, in the 

sound of the sea. 
And at night, under the full of the moon, 

in calmer weather, 
Over the hoarse surging of the sea, 
Or flitting from briar to briar by day, 
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining 

one, the he-bird, 
The solitary guest from Alabama. 



"Blow! Blow! Blow! 
Blow up sea-winds, along Paumanok's 

shore! 
I wait and wait, till vou blow my mate to 



Yes, when the stars glistened 
All night long, on the prong of a moos- 

scalloped stake, 
Down, almost amid the slapping waters. 
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing 

tears. 

He called on his mate; 
He poured forth the meaning which I of all 
men knew. 



" Soothe ! Soothe ! Soothe I 
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind, 
And again another behind, embracing and 

lapping every one close, 
But my love soothes not me, not me 

" Low hangs the moon — it rose late, 
O, it is lagging — I think it is heavy with 
love. 

" O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon 
the land, 
With love, — with love. 

" O might I not see my love floating out 
there among the breakers? 
What is that little black thing I see there in 
the white.'' 



"Loud! Loud! Loud! 
Loud I call to you my love ! 
High and clear I shout my voice above the 

waves ; 
Surely you must know who is here, -who is 

here. 
You must know who I am love! 



404 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



" Low-hanging moon! 
What is that duskj spot in your bosom 

yellow? 
C, it is the shape, the shape of my mate! 
O moon do not keep her from me any 

longer, 

"Land! Land! O, land! 
Whichever way I turn, O, I think you could 

give me my mate back again if you 

only would ; 
For I am almost sure I see her dimly 

whichever way I look. 

" O rising stars! 
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, 
will rise with some of you. 

" O throat! O trembling throat! 
Sound clear through the atmosphere! 
Pierce the woods, the earth ; 
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be 
the one I want. 

" Shake out, carols! 
Solitary here — the night's carols, 
Carols of lonesome love! Death's carols 
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning 

moon ; 
O, under that moon where she droops 
almost down into the sea! 
O reckless despairing carols ! 

"But soft! Sink low; 
Soft let me just murmur; 
And do you wait a moment, you husky- 
noised sea; 
For somewhere I believe I hear my mate 

responding to me. 
So faint — I must be still, be still to listen 
But not altogether still, for then she 
Might not come immediately to me. 



Wither, my love! 
Here I am! Here! 



With this just sustained note I announce 

myself to you; 
This gentle call is for you, my love, for 

vou. 

" Do not be decoyed elsewhere ! 
That is the whistle of the wind — it is not 

my voice; 
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the 

spray ; • 

Those are the shadows of leaves 



"O darkness! O in vain! 
O, I am very sick and sorrowful." 

Walter Whitman. 



CLARENCE'S DREAM. 

Clarence. Oh, I have passed a miserable 
night. 
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams. 
That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
I would not spend another such a night. 
Though 'twere to bu}' a world of iiappy 

days, 
So full of dismal terror was the time ! 
Methought that I had broken from the 

tower, 
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy, 
And in my company iny brother Gloster, 
Who from my cabin tempted rne to walk 
Upon the hatches. Thence we looked to- 
ward England, 
And cited up a thousand heavv times, 
During the wars of York and Lancaster, 
That had befallen us. As we passed 

along. 
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, 
Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in 

falling. 
Struck me, that sought to stay him, over- 
board. 
Into the tumbling billows of the main. 
Oh Heaven ! Methought what pain it was 
to drown ! 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



405 



What dreadful noise of waters in my ears! 
What sights of ugly death within my eyes! 
Methought I saw a thousand fearful 

wrecks; 
A thousand men, that fishes gnawed upon ; 
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of 

pearl, 
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, 
All scattered in the bottom of the sea. 
Some lay in dead men's skulls : and in 

those holes 
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were 

crept, 
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting 

gems. 
That wooed the slimy bottom of tlie deep. 
And mocked the dead bones that lay scat- 
tered by. 
Brak. Had you such leisure, in the time 

of death, 
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep.'' 
Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I 

strive 
To yield the ghost; but still the envious 

flood 
Kept in my soul, and would not let it 

forth 
To seek the empty, vast and wandering 

air; 
But smothered it within my panting bulk. 
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea. 
Brak. Awaked you not with this sore 

agony .'' 
Clar. No, no! My dream was lengthened 

after life; 
Oh, then began the tempest to my soul ! 
I passed, methought, the melancholy flood, 
With that grim ferryman which poets write 

of, 
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. 
The first that there did greet mv stranger 

soul 
Was my great father-in-law, renowned 

Warwick, 
Who cried aloud — " What scourge for per- 
jury 
Can ///is dark monarchy afford false Clar- 



And so he vanished. Then came wander- 
ing by 
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair 
Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked out 

aloud — 
"Clarence is come—false.^ Reeling., per- 
jured Clarence^ — 
That stabbed me in the jield by Teivks- 

bury ; — 
Seize on him., furies! take him to your 

torments! " 
With that, methought a legion of foul 

fiends 
Environed me, and hoAvled in mine ears 
Such hideous cries, that, with the very 

noise 
I trembling waked, and, for a season after, 
Could not believe but that I was in hell, — 
Such terrible impression made my dream. 

Shakspeare. 



OVER THE RIVER. 

Over the river they beckon to me. 

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther 
side, 
The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 
But their voices are lost in the dashing 
tide. 
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
And eyes the reflection of heaven's own 
blue; 
He crossed in the twilight gray and cold. 
And the pale mist hid him froni mortal 
view. 
We saw not the angels who met him there, 

The gates of the city we could not see: 
Over the river, over the river. 

My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 

Over the river the boatman pale 
Carried another, the household pet; 

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, 
Darling Maud! I see her yet. 



406 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



She crossed on her bosom her dimpled 
hands, 

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
We felt it glide from the silver sands, 

And all our sunshine grew strangely 
dark ; 
We know she is safe on the farther side, 

Where all the ransomed and angels be: 
Over the river, the mystic river, 

My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 

For none return from those quiet shores. 
Who cross with the boatman cold and 
pale; 
We hear the dip of the golden oars, 

And catch a gleam ot the snowy sail ; 
And lo! they have passed from our yearn- 
ing hearts, 
They cross the stream and are gone for 
aye. 
We may not sunder the veil apart 

That hides from our vision the gates of 
day; 
We only know that their barks no more 
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen 

shore. 
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold 

Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
I shall one day stand by the water cold, 
And list for the sound of the boatman's 
oar; 
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping 
sail, 
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
I shall pass from sight with the boatman 
pale, 
To the better shore of the spirit land. 
I shall know the loved who have gone be- 
fore. 
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
When over the river, the peaceful river. 
The angel of death shall carry me. 

Nancy Woodbury Priest. 



FARM-YARD SONG. 

Over the hill the farm-boy goes. 
His shadow lengthens along the land, 
A giant staff in a giant hand; 
In the poplar tree, above the spring. 
The katydid begins to sing: 

The early dews are falling. 
Into the stone-heap darts the mink; 
The swallows skim the river's brink; 
And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
When over the hill the farm-boy goes. 
Cheerily calling — 

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' 1" 
Farther, farther over the hill, 
Faintly calling, calling still — 

" Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 

Into the yard the farmer goes, 
With grateful heart, at the close of day: 
Harness and chain are hung away ; 
In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow; 
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, 

The cooling dews are falling. 
The friendl}' sheep his welcome bleat. 
The pigs come grunting to his feet. 
And the whinnying inare her master knows. 
When into the yard the farmer goes. 
His cattle calling — 

" Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" 
While still the cow-boy, far away, 
Goes seeking those that have gOne astray — 

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" 

Now to her task the milkmaid goes, 
The cattle come crowding through the gate, 
Lowing, pushing, little and great; 
About the trough, by the farm yard pump. 
The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump, 

While the pleasant dews are falling; 
The new milch heifer is quick and shy. 
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye; 
And the white stream into the bright pail 

flows. 
When to her task the milkmaid goes. 

Soothingly calling — 
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" 



OF POETR2' AND SONG. 



407 



The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 

And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 

i!:aying, "So, so, boss! so! so!" 

To supper at last the farmer goes, 
The apples are pared, the paper read. 
The stories are told, then all to bed. 
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song 
Makes shrill the silence all night long; 

The heavy dews are falling. 
The housewife's hand has turned the lock. 
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; 
The household sinks to deep repose. 
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes, 

Singing, calling — 
"Co\boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" 
And oft the milkmaid in her dreams, 
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams. 

Murmuring, "So, boss! so!" 

J. T. Trowbridge. 



PEACE! WHAT CAN TEARS 
AVAIL.? 

Peace! what can tears avail.' 
She lies all dumb and pale. 

And froin her eye 
The spirit of lovely life is fading,— 

And she must die! 
Why looks the lover wroth, — the friend 
upbraiding.' 

Reply, reply! 

Hath she not dwelt too long 
Midst pain, and grief, and wrong.' 

Then why not die.' 
Why sufi:er again her doom of sorrow, 

And hopeless lie? 
Why nurse the trembling dream until to- 
morrow.' 

Reply, reply ! 

Death! Take her to thine arms, 
In all her stainless charms! 



And with her fly 
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in bright- 
ness. 
The angels lie! 
Wilt bear her there, O death! in all her 
whiteness.' 
Reply, reply ! 

Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Corn- 
wall). 



THE HERITAGE. 

The rich man's son inherits lands. 

And piles of brick and stone and gold ; 

And he inherits soft, white hands. 
And tender flesh that fears the cold. 
Nor dares to wear a garment old; 

A heritage, it seems to me, ■ 

One would not care to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares; 

The bank may break, the factory burn ; 
Some breath may burst his bubble shares; 

And soft, white hands would hardly 
earn 

A living that would suit his turn ; 
A heritage, it seems to me. 
One would not care to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits wants ; 

His stomach craves for dainty fare; 
With sated heart he hears the pants 

Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 

And wearies in his easv-chair; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One would not care to hold in fee. 

What does the poor man's son inherit.' 
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart; 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 



40S 



/r.LrSTI^Al'ED /fO.VE JiOOA' 



What does the poor man's son inherit? 
Wishes o'erjoved with humble tilings; 

A rank adjudged bv toil-won merit; 

Content that t'i\>ni employment springs: 
A lu\u-t that in its labor sings; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wisli to hold in lee. 

What does the poor man's son inherit? 
A patience learned bv being poor; 

Courage, it" sorrow eomes, to hear it; 
A lellow-leeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door: 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in ice. 

O. rich man's son I there is ;i toil 
That with all other level stands, 

Large charity doth never soil. 

But only whiten, sott, white h;mds; 
That is the best crop from thy lands: 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being rich to hold in tec. 

O, poor man's son, scorn not thy state! 
There is worse weariness than thine, 

In being merely rich and great; 

Work only makes the soul to shine. 
And makes rest tragrant and benign ; 

A heritage, it seems to me. 

Worth being poor to hold in tee. 

Both, heirs to some six leet of sod. 
Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both children of the same dear God; 
Prove title to your heirsiiip vast, 
By record of a well-tilled past; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Well worth a lite to hold in fee. 

Jamks RissELL Lowell. 



SEVEN AGES OF ISLVN. 

All the world's a stage. 
And all the men and women merely placers, 
They have their exits, and their entrances; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 



His acts being seven ages. At first the in- 
fant. 
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. 
Then the whining school-boy, with his 

satchel. 
And shining morning lace, creeping like 

snail 
Unwillingly to school. .\nii thou the lover. 
Sighing like lurnace, with a wot'ul ballad 
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. 'I'hen a 

soldier, 
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the 

pard. 
Jealous in iionor, siuUien and quick in 

quarrel. 
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the cannon's nu>uth. And then the 

justice. 
In lair round belly with good capon lined. 
With eyes severe, and beard of tprmal cut. 
Full of wise saws and modern instances; 
And so he plays his j>art. The sixth age 

shifts 
Into the lean and siipi->crcd pantaloon, 
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; 
His youthtul hose, well saved, a world too 

w ide 
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly 

vi>ice. 
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his soimd. Last scene of 

all. 
That ends this strange e\ cntl'ul history. 
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion — 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every- 

thiniT. 



SHAKESrE.\RE. 



TO !SIY INFANT SON. 

Tnoi: happy, happy elf! 
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,) 

Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) 
Thou merry, laughing sprite. 
With spirits leather 1 ght, 



OF POETUr AND SONG. 



400 



Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; 
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin \) 

Thou little tricksy Puck! 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
Light as the singing bird that wings the 

air, — 
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the 

stair!) 
Thou darling of thy sire! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
In l<jves dear chain so bright a link, 

Thou idol of thy parents; — (Drat the boy! 
There goes my ink.) 

Thou cherub, but of earth ; 
Fit playfellow for fays, by moonlight pale. 

In harmless sport and mirth, 
(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) 
Thou human humming-bee, extracting 
honey 
From every blossom in the world that 
blows. 
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, 
(Another tumble! That's his precious nose!) 
Thy father's pride and hope! 
(Hell break the mirror with that skij^ping- 

rope !) 
With pure heart newly stamped from na- 
ture's mint, 
(Where did he learn that squint?) 

Thou young domestic dove! 
(He'll have that ring off with another 

shove,) 
Dear nursling of the iiymeneal nest! 
(Are these torn clothes his best?) 
Little epitome of man! 
{He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawn- 
ing life, 
(He's got a knife!) 
Thou enviable being! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue skv fore- 
seeing. 



Play on, play on, 
My elfin John! 
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, — 
(I knew so many cakes would make him 
sick!) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down. 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic 

brisk. 
With many a lamb-iike frisk ! 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your 
gown I) 
Thou pretty opening rose! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 

nose!) 
JJalmy and breathing music like the south, 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!) 
J3old as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, 
(I'll tell you what, my love, 
I cannot write unless he's sent above.) 

Thomas Hood. 



THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing out into the 
west — 
Out into the west as the sun went down; 
Each thought of the woman who loved 
him the best, 
And the children stood watching them 
out of the town ; 
For men must work, and women must 

weep ; 
And there's little to earn, and many to 
keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
down ; 
They looked at the squall, and they looked 
at the shower. 
And the night-rack came rolling up, rag- 
ged and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must 
weep, 



410 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Though storms be sudden and waters deepf 
And the harbor bar be moaninjr. 



Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
In the morning gleam as the tide went 
down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing 
their hands, 
For those who will never come back to 
the town ; 
For men must w^ork, and women must 

weep, — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to 
sleep, — 
And good-by to the bar and its moaning. 

Charles Kingsley. 



PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 

t DO not ask, O Lord ! that life may be 

A pleasant road ; 
\ do not ask that Thou wouidst take from me 

Aught of its load; 
I do not ask that flowers should always 
spring 

Beneath my feet; 
I know too well the poison and the sting 

Of things too sweet. 
For one thing only. Lord, dear Lord ! I 
plead : 

Lead me aright — 
Though strength should falter, and though 
heart should bleed — 

Through Peace to Light. 

I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst 
shed 

Full radiance here; 
Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 

Without a fear. 
I do not ask my cross to understand, 

My way to see, — 
Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand. 

And follow Thee. 
Joy is like restless day, but peace divine 



Like quiet night. 
Lead me, O Lord ! till perfect day shall 
shine, 
Through Peace to Light. 

Adelaide Anxe Procter. 



MESSIAH. 

A SACRED ECLOGUE. 

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: 

To heav'nly themes sublimer strains be- 
long. 

The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades. 

The dreams of Pindus and ^^onian maids 

Delight no more — O Thou my voice in- 
spire 

Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with 
fire: 
Rapt into future times, the bard begun : 

A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a 
Son! 

From Jesse's root behold a branch arise. 

Whose sacred tlow'r.with tragrance fills the 
skies; 

Th' ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall 
move, 

And on its top descends the mystic dove. 

Ye heav'ns! from high the dewy nectar 
pour. 

And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r! 

The sick and weak the healing plant shall 
aid. 

From storms a shelter, and from heat a 
shade. 

All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud 
shall fail; 

Returning" Justice lift aloft her scale; 

Peace o'er the world her olive wand ex- 
tend, 

And white-robed Innocence from heaven 
descend. 

Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected 
morn ! 

Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born ! 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



411 



See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to 

bring, 
With all the incense of the breathing spring : 
See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 
See nodding forestson the mountains dance : 
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, 
And Carmel's flow'ry top perfumes the 

skies! 
Hark! a glad voice the lonelv desert cheers; 
Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears : 
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply. 
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deitv. 
Lo, earth receives Him from the bending 

skies! 
Sink down, ye mountains, and ye valleys 

rise, 
With heads declined, ye cedars homage 

Be smooth ye rocks, ye rapid floods give 
way ! 

The Saviour comes! by ancient bards fore- 
told : 

Hear Him, ye deaf, and all ye blind, be- 
hold ! " 

He from thick films shall purge the visual 
ray. 

And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 

'Tis He th" obstructed paths of sound shall 
clear, 

And bid new music charm th' unfolding 
ear: 

The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch 
forego. 

And leap exulting like the bounding roe. 

No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall 
hear. 

From ev'ry face he wipes off ev'ry tear. 

In adamantine chains shall death be boimd, 

And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal 
wound. 

As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 

Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air. 

Explores the lost, the wand'ring sheep di- 
rects. 

By day o'ersees them, and by night protects. 

The tender lambs He raises in His arms, 

Feeds from His hand, and in His bosom 
warms ; 



Thus shall mankind His guardian care en- 
gage. 
The promised Father of the future age. 
No more shall nation against nation rise, 
Nor ardent warriors meet wit'.i hateful eyes, 
Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered 

o'er. 
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 
But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare 

end. 
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son 
Sliall finish what his short-lived sire begun: 
Their vines a shadow to their race shall 

yield, 
And the same hand that sowed shall reap 

the field. 
The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; 
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
New tails of water murm'ring in his ear. 
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. 
The green reed trembles and the bulrush 

nods. 
Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with 

thorn. 
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn. 
To leafless shrubs the flow'ring palms suc- 
ceed. 
And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed.. 
The lambs with wolves shall graze the ver- 
dant mead. 
And boys in flow'ry bands the tiger lead; 
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet. 
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's 

feet. 
The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
The crested basilisk and speckled snake. 
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales sur- 
vey. 
And with their forky tongues shall inno- 
cently play. 
Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, 

rise ! 
Exalt thy tow'ry head, and \\{\. thy eyes! 
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;. 
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn^ 
In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, 



413 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Demanding life, impatient for tlie skies! 
See barb'rous nations at tliy gates attend, 
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate 

kings, 
And heaped with products of Saba^an 



sprmgs 



For thee Idume's spicy forests blow. 

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains 
glow. 

See heaven its sparkling portals wide dis- 
play. 

And break upon thee in a flood of day ! 

No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 

Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 

But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 

One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 

O'erflow thy courts: the Light Himself 
shall shine 

Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine! 

The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke 
decay. 

Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt 
away; 

But fixed His word. His saving power re- 
mains; — 

'Thy realm for ever lasts; thy own Mes- 
siah reigns! 

Alexander Pope. 



CUDDLE DOON. 

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 

Wi' muckle faucht an' din. 
*' Oh, try and sleep, 3'e waukrife rogues : 

Your father's comin' in." 
They never heed a word I speak, 

I try to gie a froon ; 
But aye I hap them up, and cry, 

" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 

Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid — 
He aye sleeps next the wa' — 

JBangs up an' cries, " I want a piece," — 
The rascal starts them a'. 



I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks — 
They stop awee the soun' — 

Then draw the blankets up, and cry, 
" Noo, bairnies, cuddle doon!" 



But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab 

Cries 'oot frae 'neath the claes, 
" Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance: 

He's kittlin' wi' his taes." 
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks: 

He'd bother half the toon. 
But aye I hap them up, and cry, 

" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 



At length they hear their father's fit; 

An' as he steeks the door, 
They turn their faces to the wa', 

While Tam pretends to snore. 
" Hae a' the weans been gude.'^" he asks, 

As he pits aft" his shoon. 
"The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 

An' lane since cuddled doon." 



An' just afore we bed oorsels. 

We look at oor wee lambs, 
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, 

An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. 
I lift wee Jamie up the bed. 

An' as I straik each croon, 
I whisper, till my heart fills up, 

" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon !" 



The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht 

Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
But soon the big warl's cark and care 

Will quaten doon their glee. 
Yet, come whfvt will to ilka ane, 

May He who sits aboon 
Ave whisper, though their pows be bauld, 

" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon !" 

J. Anderson. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



413 



THE DEATH OF CROMWELL. 

FROM A POEM ON THE DEATH OF HIS 
LATE HIGHNESS, THE LORD PRO- 
TECTOR. 

He without noise still traveled to his end, 
As silent suns to meet the night descend; 
The stars that for him fought had only 

power 
Left to determine now his fatal hour, 
Which, since they might not hinder, yet 

they cast 
To choose it worthy of his glories past. 
No part of time but bare his mark away 
Of honor — all the year was Cromwell's 

day! 
But this of all the most auspicious found, 
Twice had in open field him victor crowned 
When up the armesl mountains of Dunbar 
He marched, and through deep Severn, 

ending war : 
What day should him eternize but the same 
That had before immortalized his name? 
That so whoe'er would at his death have 

joyed 
In their own griefs might find themselves 

employed. 
But those that sadly his departure grieved. 
Yet joyed, remembering what he once 

achieved. 
And the last minute his victorious ghost 
Gave chase to Ligny on the Belgic coast: 
Here ended all his mortal toils; he laid 
And slept in peace under the laurel shade. 



I saw him dead : a leaden slumber lies, 
And mortal sleep over those wakeful eyes; 
Those gentle rays under the lids were fled, 
Which through his looks that piercing 

sweetness shed ; 
That port.,which so majestic was and strong, 
Loose, and deprived of vigor, stretched 

along — 
All withered, all discolored, pale and wan, 
O human glory vain! O death! O wings! 
O worthless world! O transitorv things! 



Yet dwelt that greatness in his shape de- 
cayed. 

That still, though dead, greater than death, 
he laid. 

And in his altered face you something feign 

That threatens death he yet will live again ! 

Andrew Marvel. 



'TIS SWEET TO THINK. 

'Tis sweet to think the pure etheral being, 
Whose mortal form reposes with the dead. 

Still houses round unseen, though not un- 
seeing. 
Benignly smiling o'er the mourner's bed! 



She comes in dreams, a thing of light and 
brightness, 
I hear her voice, in still, small accents tell 
Of realms of bliss, and never-fading bright- 
ness, 
Where those who loved on earth together 
dwell. 



Oh! yet awhile, blest shade, thy flight de- 
laying, 
The kindred soul with mystic converse 
cheer; 
To her rapt gaze, in visions bland, display- 
ing 
The unearthly glories of thy happier 
sphere ! 



Yet, 3'et remain! till freed like thee, de- 
lighted 
She spurns the thralldom of encumbering 
clay ; 
Then as on earth, in tend'rest love united, 
Together seek the realms of endless day! 

Thomas Barham. 



414 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL'S 
SONG. 

Buy my flowers — O buy — I pray ! 

The blind girl comes from afar ; 
If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, 

These flowers her children are ! 
Do they her beauty keep? 

They are fresh from her lap I know; 
For I caught them fast asleep 

In her arms an hour ago, 

With the air which is her breath — 

Her soft and delicate breath — 
Over them murmuring low! 

On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, 
And their cheeks with her tender tears are 

wet — 
For she weeps — that gentle mother weeps 
(As morn and night her watch she keeps, 
With a yearning heart and a jiassionate 

care) 
To see the young things grow so fair; 
She weeps — for love she weeps. 
And the dews are the tears she weeps 
From the well of a mother's love! 

Ye have a world of light. 

Where love in the loved rejoices; 

But the blind girl's home is the house of 
night, 
And its beings are empty voices. 

As one in the realms below, 
I stand by the streams of woe! 
I hear the vain shadows glide, 
I feel their soft breath at my side ; 

And I thirst the loved forms to see, 
And I stretch my fond arms around. 
And I catch but a shapeless sound, 

For the living are ghosts to me. 

Come buy — come buy! — 
Hark how the sweet things sigh 
(For they have a voice like ours); 
The breath of the blind girl closes 
The leaves of the saddening roses; 
We are tender, we sons of light, 



We shrink from this child of night; 
From the grasp of the blind girl free us: 
We yearn for the eyes that see us — 
We are for night too gay. 
In your eyes we behold the day — 
O buy — O buy the flowers! 

Lord Lytton. 



WEARINESS. 

O LITTLE feet! that such long years. 
Must wander on through hopes and fears, 
Must ache and bleed beneath your load; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary thinking of your road! 

O little hands that weak or strong, 
Have still to serve or rule so long. 

Have still so long to give or ask; 
I, who so much with book and pen 
Have toiled amongst my fellow-men 

Am weary thinking of your task. 

O little hearts! that throb and beat, 
With such impatient feverish heat, 

Such limitless and strong desires: 
Mine that so long has glowed and burned, 
With passions into ashes turned, 

Now covers and conceals its fires. 

O little souls! so pure and white, 
And crystalline as rays of light 

Direct from heaven, their source divine; 
Refracted through the mists of years. 
How red my setting sun appears, 

How lurid looks this soul of mine. 

H. W. Longfellow. 



LUCY. 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And verv few to love. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



415 



A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye! 
Fair a^ a star, -when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh! 

The difference to me ! 

William Wordsworth. 



'CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH 
TO CROMWELL. 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced 

me, 
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, 

Cromwell ; 
And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be. 
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no 

mention 
Of me must be heard of— say, I taught 

thee, 
.Say, Wolsey — that once trod the ways of 

glory. 
And sounded all the depths and shoals of 

honor — 
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise 

in; 
A sure and safe one, though thy master 

missed it. 
Mark but my foil, and that that ruined me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away am- 
bition ; 
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, 

then. 
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't.? 
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that 

hate thee : 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and 

fear not: 



Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy coun- 
try's. 
Thy God's, and truth'|s; then if thou fall'st, 

O Cromwell ! 
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. 
Serve the king; and — pr'thee, lead me in: 
There take an inventory of all I have. 
To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe, 
And my integrity to heaven, is all 
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, 

Cromwell ! 
Had I but served my God with half the 

zeal 
I served my king, he would not in mine age 
Have left me naked to mine enemies! 

Shakespeare. 



THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung, — 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, — 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse. 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shores refuse: 
Their place of birth, alone, is mute 

To sounds that echo further west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the blest." 

The mountains look on Marathon, 
And Marathon looks on the sea: 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; 

For, standing on the Persian's grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

A king sat on the rocky brow 
That looks o'er sea- born Salamis; 

And ships by thousands lay below. 
And men in nations; — all were his! 

He coimted them at break of day. 

And when the sun set where were they? 



416 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine? 

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suftuse my face. 

For, what is left the poet here? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

Must -cve but weep o'er days more bless'd? 

Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae! 

What! silent still? and silent all? 

Ah! no; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come;" 
'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

In vain — in vain: strike other chords; 

Fill high the cup of Samian wine! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
Hark! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold bacchanal! 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet — 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one? 

You have the letters Cadmus gave — ■ 

Think you he meant thein for a slave? 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

We will not think on themes like these! 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 

He serv'd — but serv'd Polycrates — 
A tyrant; but our masters then 
Were still at least our countrymen. 



The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend; 
That tyrant was Miltiades! 

Oh! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks, 
They have a king who buys and sells ;- 

In native swords and native ranks. 
The only hope of courage dwells: 

But Turkish force and Latin fraud 

Would break your shield, however broad.^ 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade, 
I see their glorious black eyes shine: 

But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
Mine own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep — 
Where nothing but the waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep: 
There, swanlike, let me sing and die: 

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samain wine. 

Lord Byron. 



CIVIL WAR. 

" Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 

Straight at the heart of yon prowling 
vedette ; 
Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 

That shines on his breast like an amu- 
let!" 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



417 



" Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn 
bead, 
There's music around when mj barrel's 
in tune!" 
Crack! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 
And dead from his horse fell the ringino- 
dragoon. 

" Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes, 
and snatch 
From your victim some trinket to hand- 
sel first blood ; 
A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
That gleams in the moon like a diamond 
stud!" 

" Oh, captain! I staggered, and sunk on my 
track, 
When I gazed on the face of that fallen 
vedette. 
For he looked so like vou, as he lav on his 
back. 
That va\ heart rose upon me, and mas- 
ters me \et. 

" But I snatched ofl:" the trinket, — this locket 
of gold; 
An inch from the centre my lead broke 
its way. 
Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold. 
Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 

"Ha! rifleman, fling me the locket! — 'tis 
she, 
My brother's young bride,— and the fallen 
dragoon 
Was her husband — Hush! soldier, 'twas 
Heaven's decree. 
We must bury him there by the light of 
the moon ! 

" But, hark ! the far bugles their warnings 
unite; 
War is a virtue, — weakness a sin ; 
There's a lurking and loping around us to- 
night ; — 
Load again, rifleman, keep your hand 
in!'- 

Anonymous. 



NELL. 

You're a kind woman. Nan ! ay, kind and 

true! 
God will be good to faithful folk like you! 
2'ou knew my Ned! 
A better, kinder lad never drew breath. 
We loved each other true, though we were 

not wed 
In church, like some who took him to his. 

death ; 
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 
His senses when he took a drop too much. 

Drink did it all— drink made him mod when 

crossed — 
He was a poor man, and they're hard on 

such. 
O Nan! that night! that night! 
When I Avas sitting in this very chair. 
Watching and waiting in the candlelight. 
And heard his foot come creaking up the 

stair, 
And turned, and saw him standing yonder, 

white 
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled 

hair! 
And when I caught his arm and called, in 

fright. 
He pushed me, swore, and to the door he 

pas.sed 
To lock and bar it fast. 
Then down he drops just like a lump of 

lead. 
Holding his brow, shaking, and growing 

whiter. 
And— Nan !— just then the light seemed 

growing brighter. 
And I could see the hands that held his 

head. 
All red! all bloody red! 
What could I do but scream.? He groaned 

to hear. 
Jumped to his feet, and gripped me by the 

Avrist ; 
"Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!" he 

hissed. 
And I -..vus still, for fear. 



418 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



"They're after me — I've knifed a man!" he 

said ; 
"Be still!— the drink — drink did it! — he is 

dead !" 

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't 

weep ; 
All I could do was just to cling to Ned and 

hark, 
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep. 
But breathing hard and deep. 
The candle flickered out — the room grew 

dark — 
And — Nan! — although my heart was true 

and tried — 
When all grew cold and dim, 
I shuddered — net for fear of them outside. 
But just afraid to be alone with him. 
■" Ned ! Ned !" I whispered — and he moaned 

and shook. 
But did not heed or look ! 
"Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not 

true!" 
At that he raised his head and looked so 

wild ; 
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he 

threw 
His arms around me, crying like a child. 
And held me close — and not a word was 

spoken. 
While I clung tighter to his heart, and 

pressed him. 
And did not fear him, though my heart was 

broken, 
But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, 

and blessed him. 

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming 

cold 
With sound o' falling rain — 
When I could see his face, and it looked 

old. 
Like the pinched face of one that dies in 

pain; 
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the 

sun 
We never thought to hide away or run, 
Until we heard those voices in the street, 



That hurrying of feet. 

And Ned leaped up, and knew that they 
had come. 

" Run, Ned !" I cried, but he was deaf and 
dumb! 

"Hide, Ned!" I screamed, and held him; 
" hide thee, man !" 

He stared with bloodshot eyes, and heark- 
ened, Nan ! 

And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 

Of knocking at the door — 

A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — 

A mist — a tramp — a roar; 

For when I got my senses back again. 

The room was empty — and my head wen 
round ! 

God help him. ^ God zvill help him! Ay, 

no fear ! 
It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no 

wrong ; 
So kind! so good! — and I am useless here. 
Now he is lost that loved me true and long. 
* * * That night before he died, 
I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried; 
But when the clocks went " one," I took 

my shawl 
To cover up my face, and stole away, 
And walked along the silent streets, where 

all 
Looked cold and still and gray. 
And on I went, and stood in Leicester 

Sqviare, 
But just as "three" was sounded close at 

hand 
I started and turned east before I knew. 
Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the 

Strand, 
And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. 

Some men and lads went bj'. 

And turning round, I gazed, and watched 
'em go. 

Then felt that they were going to see him 
die. 

And drew my shawl more tight, and fol- 
lowed slow. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



419 



More people passed me, a country cart with 

hay 
Stopped close beside me, and two or three 
Talked about it! I moaned and crept 

away ! 

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well. 
For something gripped me round the heart! 

— and then 
There came the solemn tolling of a bell! 

God! O God! how could I sit close by, 
And neither scream nor cry ? 

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold; 

1 listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, 
While the folk murmured, and the death- 
bell tolled. 

And the day brightened, and his time had 

come * * 
* * * Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, 

but the knell 
Of the slow bell ! 

And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, 
And what I waited for I couldn't tell — 
At last there came a groaning deep and 

great — 
Saint Paul's struck " eight" — 
I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and 

fell! 

Robert Buchanan. 



COME TO THESE SCENES OF 
PEACE. 

Come to these scenes of peace, 
Where to rivers murmuring, 
The sweet birds all the summer sing, 
Where cares and toil and sadness cease! 
Stranger does thy heart deplore 
Friends whom thou wilt see no more? 
Does thy wounded spirit prove 
Pangs of hopeless, severed love? 
Thee the stream that gushes clear, 
Thee the birds that carol near, 
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie 
And dream of their wild lullaby; 
Come to bless these scenes of peace, 
Where cares and toil and sadness cease. 

William Lisle Bowles. 



THE DULE'S I' THIS BONNET O' 
MINE. 

The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine. 

My ribbins '11 never be reet; 
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine. 

For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet; 
He met me i' th' lone t'other day 

(Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well). 
An' he begged that aw' wed him i' May, 

Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will ! 

When he took my two bonds into his. 

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between 
An' aw durstn't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' my e'en. 
My cheek went as red as a rose; 

There's never a mortal con tell 
Heaw happy aw felt — for, thae knows. 

One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'. 

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : 

To let it eawt wouldn't be reet. 
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung: 

So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet 
But, Mally, thae knows very weel, 

Though it isn't a thing one should own, 
Iv aw'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', 

Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd thae my mind; 

What would to do iv it wur thee? 
" Aw'd take him just while he're inclined. 

An' a farrantly bargain he'll be; 
For Jamie's as greadly a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun. 
Go, jump at th' chance, an' get wed; 

An' mak th' best o' th' job when its done!" 

Eh, dear! but it's time to be gwon : 

Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait; 
Aw connut for shame be too soon. 

An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late. 
Aw'm a' ov a tremble to th' heel : 

Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do? 
" Be off, lass — thae looks very weel; 

He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " 

Edwin Waugh. 



430 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



LIFE'S CROWN. 

Life's fadeless crown is twisted from the 

leaves 
Of little flowers of love that strew the lands 
Around us, ready to all ready hands 
To pluck and plait. And he who idly 

grieves 
That life is crownless is a fool and blind. 
He who would bless his fellows must not 

ask 
Sublime occasions for that gentle task, 
Or trumpets boasting to the deafened wind. 
To fill with patience, our allotted sphere, 
To rule the self within us, strong in faith, 
To answer smile with smile, and tear with 

tear. 
To perfect character and conquer death — 
This is to win what Angels call renown, 
And bend round life's pale brows an amar- 
anthine crown. 

Wade Robinson. 



THE BOY'S COMPLAINT. 

" Oh, never mind! they're only boys;" 

'Tis thus the people say ; 
And they hustle us and jostle us, 

And drive us out the way. 

They never give us half our rights, 

I know that this is so; 
Ain't I a boy, and can't I see 

The way that these things go.' 

Whoever wants an errand done 

We always have to scvid; 
Whoever walks the sidewalk we 

Are crowded in the mud. 

But never mind, boys, we will be 
The grown men by and by ; 

Then I suppose 'twill be our turn 
To snub the smaller boy. 

Anonymous. 



DUNCAN 



GRAY CAM' HERE TO \ 
WOO. ' 



DrxcAN Gray cam' here to woo — 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

One blythe Yule night when we were fou 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Maggie coost her head fu' high, 

Looked asklent and unco' skeigh — 
Ha, ha! the Avooing o't! 

Duncan tieeched and Duncan prayed — 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Dimcan sighed baith out and in, 

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 

Spak o' lopin o'er a linn — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Time and chance are but a tide — 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Slighted love is sair to bide — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 

For a haughty hizzie dee.' 

She may gae to — France for me! 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

How it comes let doctors tell — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Meg grew sick as he grew heal — 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Something in her bosom wrings, — 

For relief a sigh she brings ; 

And O, her een they speak sic things! 
Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 
» 

Duncan was a lad o' grace — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Maggie's was a piteous case — 

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 

Duncan could na be her death : 

Swelling pity smoored his wrath. 

Now they're crouse and canty baith, 
Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 

Robert Burns. 




COME TO THESE SCENES Ol- PEACE. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



423 



WHAT I'D DO. 

" What will ve do, love, when I'm going 
With white sails tlowing 

The seas beyond ; 
What will ye do, love, though waves divide 
us, 

From being found?" 

" Though waves divide us 
And friends may chide us, 

In faith abiding I'll still be true; 
I'll pray for you on the stormy ocean 
With deep devotion. 

That's what I'll do!" 

" What would ye do, love, if distant tidings 
Your fond confidings 

Should undermine; 
And I abiding 'neath foreign skies 
Should think other eyes 

Were bright as thine?" 

"Oh, name it not, love; though guilt and 

shame 
Were on your name 

I'd still be true; 
But that heart of thine, should another 

share it, 
I could not bear it, 

That's what I'd do!" 

" What would ye do, love, if home return- 
ing 
In hopes high burning. 

And wealth for you; 
If my bark that bounded o'er foreign foam 
Should be lost near home. 

What would you do?" 

" So thou wert spared I'd bless the morrow, 
In want and sorrow, 

That left me you ; 
And I'd welcome thee from the stormy bil- 
low, 
This heart thy pillow— 

That's what I'd do!" 

Samuel Lover. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? 

What constitutes a State? 
Not high-raised battlement or labored 
mound. 
Thick wall or moated gate; 
Not cities proud with spires and turrets 
crowned; 
Not bays and broad armed ports. 
Where, laughing at the storm, rich' navies 
ride; 
Not starred and spangled courts. 
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume 
to pride. 
No:— men, high-minded men, 
With powers as far above dull brutes en- 
dued 
In forest, brake, or den, 
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles 
rude, — 
Men who their duties know, 
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
maintain, 
Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
chain; 
These constitute a State; 
And sovereign law, that State's collected 
will, 
O'er thrones and globes elate 
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 

Smit by her sacred frown. 
The fiend. Dissension, like a vapor sinks; 

And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding- 
shrinks. 
Such was this heaven-loved isle, 
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 

No more shall freedom smile? 
Shall Britons languish, and be men no 
more? 
Since all must life resign, 
Those sweet rewards which decorate the 
brave 
'Tis folly to decline, 
And steal inglorious to the silent grave. 

Sir William Jones. 



434 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THERE IS A GREEN HILL. 

There is a green hill far avaj, 

Without a city wall, 
Where the dear Lord was crucified 

Who died to save us all. 

We niav not know, we cannot tell 
What pains He had to bear. 

But we believe it was for us 
He hung and suffered there. 

He died that we might be forgiven, 

He died to make us good, 
That we might go at last to heaven. 

Saved by His precious blood. 

There was no other good enough 

To pay the price of sin, 
He only could unlock the gate 

Of heaven, and let us in. 

O, dearly, dearly has He loved. 
And we must love Him too. 

And trust in His redeeming Blood, 
And try His works to do. 

Anonymous. 



THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL. 

Did you ever start out of your sleep 

When the light of the sunshine had fled. 

To hear how the butterflies weep 
For a butterfly recently dead.^ 

Did you -ee them approach in a crowd. 

And a soft lamentation begin. 
With a neat little coffin and shroud 

To put the dead butterfly iii." 

Did their delicate fluttering wings. 

You had thought only made to rejoice, 

Keep saying unsayable things 

That went straight to your heart like a 
voice : 



Did the poor little corpse, all alone, 

So pitiful look where it lies. 
It would melt a heart fashion'd of stone, 

Or draw tears from a crocodile's eyes? 

Did thev weave from the cypress a pall.' 
While lilies the winding-sheet gave.' 

Did the^• play the Dead March out of Saul 
As they look the poor thing to its grave.' 

Did they form a procession in air, 
By an aged white butterfly led.' 

While the moths that the coffin must bear 
Are the moths people call the Death's 
Head.' 

Did you then turn \ oiu- eves to the ground, 
Where, under the butterfly throng, 

The ants are all leaving their mound. 
And most fussily scuffling along.' 

Did you notice blackbeetles in pairs 

(With the ready-made mourning they 
bring), 

Advancing with woebegone airs. 
So completely at home in the thing.' 

Did you see on the lawn how they met.' 
(Where each grave by a daisy you trace); 

Did you learn with a tender regret 
'Tis the butterflies' burying-place.' 

Did you watch the ants digging the grave 
While the beetles stand round in black 
rings, 

And tlie butterflies, mournful tiio' brave, 
Are drooping disconsolate wings.' 

Did they lower the coffin, alas! 

Till the poor little thing disappears.^ 
Did they cover it over with grass.' 

Did they water the grass with their tears.' 

Did the sight send a l^ang through your 
heart.' 

Did it almost too sorrowful seem .' 
And then — did you wake with a start. 

And discover 'twas only a dream.' 

Anonymous. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



425 



MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. 

These are thy glorious works, Parent of 
good, 

Almighty, Thine this universal frame, 

Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous 
then! 

Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heav- 
ens 

To us invisible, or dimly seen 

In these Thy lowest works; vet these de- 
clare 

Thy goodness beyond thought, and power 
divine. 

Speak ve who best can tell, ve sons of 

light, 

Angels; for ye behold Him, and with songs. 
And choral symphonies, day without night, 
Circle His throne rejoicing; ye in heaven, 
On earth join all ye creatures to extol 
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and with- 
out end. 
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smil- 
ing morn 
With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy 

sphere, 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and 

soul. 
Acknowledge Him thy greater, sound His 

praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou 

climb'st. 
And when high noon hast gain'd, and 

when thou fall'st. 
Moon that now meet'st the orient Sun, now 

fliest. 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that 

flies. 
And ye five other wandering fires that 

move 
In mystic dance r.ot without song, resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up 

light. 
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run 



Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix 

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless 

change 
Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise 
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grav. 
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with 

gold, 
In honor to the woild's great Author ri.se. 
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolor'd 

sky^ 
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show- 
ers. 
Rising or falling still advance his praise. 
His praise ye Winds, that from tour quar- 
ters blow. 
Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, 

ye Pines, 
With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
Fountains and ye, that warble, as ye flow. 
Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune His 

praise. 
Join voices all ye living Souls; ye Birds, 
That singing up to heaven gate ascend, 
Bear on your wings and in your notes His 

praise. 
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep; 
Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade 
Made vocal by my song, and taught His 

praise. 
Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still 
To give us only good; and if the night 
Have gather'd aught of evil or conceal'd, 
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 

John Milton. 



ONCE IN THE COOL OF EARLY 
MORN. 

Once in the cool of early inorn. 

The lark was singing aloud 

Like a king in state he was high upborne. 

His throne was a crimson cloud; 



426 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



While thro' the air his song was ringing 

Came the sweet sound of Marion's singing, 

The echoes listened and caught the strain ; 

I heard them singing the song again. 

Then in the turf the violet sweet, 

Looked up at the music rare, 

The sunbeams crept to my darling's feet, 

And worshipped the singer there. 

The lark came down from his cloud to hear 

her; 
The linnet flew up to a briar near her, 
Thedewdrops clung to her garment's hem: 
She sings not now to any of them. 

Angels who sing in the heavens above, 

Bent over their harps and smiled; 

For me their love was a cruel love. 

They robb'd me of my child. 

In vain may the lark and linnet listen, 

In vain may the sun or the dewdrop glisten ; 

No Marion sings to them, never, oh ! never, 

The angels will keep her, forever land ever! 

Anonymous, 



THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE. 

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts 

not breath ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart throbs 

when they beat 
For God, for man, for duty. He most lives, 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, actg 

the best. 
Life is but a means unto an end — that end. 
Beginning, mean, and end to all things, 

God. 

P. J. Bailey. 



OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE 
THEIR HEADS. 

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads, 
When snow lies on the hills — 

When frost has spoiled their mossy beds. 
And crystallized their rills.'' 



Beneath the moon they cannot trip 

In circles o'er the plam ; 
And draughts of dew they cannot sip, 

Till green leaves come again. 

Perhaps, in small, blue diving bells, 

Tiiey plunge beneath the waves, 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 

That lie in coral caves. 
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius, 

Carousals they maintain ; 
And cheer their little spirits thus. 

Till green leaves come again. 

When they return there will be mirth, 

And music in the air, 
And fairy wings upon the earth. 

And mischief every where. 
The maids, to keep the elves aloof, 

Will bar the doors in vain ; 
No key-hole will be fairy-proof, 

When green leaves come again. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 



THE EXILE OF ERIN. 

There came to the beach a poor Exile of 

Erin, 
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and 

chill : 
For his country he sighed, when at twi- 
light repairing 
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad 

devotion. 
For it rose o'er his own "native isle of the 

ocean, 
Where once in the fire of his youthful 

emotion, 
He sang the bold anthem of " Erin go 

bragh." 

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken 
stranger ; 
The wild deer and wolf to a covp-*- can 
flee, 




ONX'E IN THE COOI. OF EARLY MOIIN. 







, 












1 




"" 


^^^ 






OF POETRV 


AND SONG. . 429 










But I have no refuge from famine and 


LIGHTS AND SHADES. 








\ 


danger, 
A home and a countrv remain not to me, 
Never again, in the green sunny bowers. 
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend 

the sweet hours, 
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven 

tlowers, 
And strike to the numbers of " Erin go 

iM-agh !," 

Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken I 
In dreams 1 revisit thy sea-beaten shore; 

But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken. 
And sigh for the friends who can meet 
no more! 

Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me 

In a mansion of peace — where no perils can 
chase me? 

Never again shall iny brothers embrace me? 

They died to defend, me or live to deplore! 


The gloomiest day hath gleams of light, 
The darkest wave hath bright foam near 
it; 

And twinkles through the cloudiest night 
Some solitary star to cheer it. 

The gloomiest soul is not nil gloom. 
The saddest hour is not all sadness; 

And sweetly o'er the darkest doom 

There shines some lingering beam' of 
gladness. ^ 

Despair is never quite despair, 

Nor life, nor death, the future closes ; 

And round the shadowy brow of care 
Will hope and fancy twine their roses. 

Mrs. Hemans. 




















Where is my cabin door, fast h\ the wild 


HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 










wood ? 
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? 
Where is the mother that looked on my 

childhood? 
And where is the bosom-friend, dearei- 

than all? 
Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by 

pleasure. 
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? 
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without 


I>ARS PORSENA of Clusium, 

By the Nine Gods he swore 
That the great house of Tarquin 

Should suffer wrong no more. 
By the Nine Gods he swore it. 










And named a trysting-day. 
And bade his messengers ride Ibrth, 
East and west and south and noi-th, 

To summon his array. 










measure. 


East and west and south and north 










But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 


The messengers ride fast. 










Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
One dying wish my lone bosom can 
draw: 

Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! 
Land of my forefathers ! Erin-go-bragh 1 

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her 


And tower and town and cottage 
Have heard the trumpet's blast. 

Shame on the false Etruscan 
Who lingers in his home, 

When Porsena of Clusium 
Is on the march for Rome! 










motion, 


****** 










Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the 


There be thirty chosen prophets, 






' 




ocean ! 
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud 

with devotion, 
JErin mavourin, — Erin-go-bragh! 


The wisest of the land, 
Who alway by Lars Porsena 

Both morn and evening stand. 
Evening and morn the Thirty 










Thomas Campbell. 


Have turned the verses o'er, 































430 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Traced from the riglit on linen white 
Bj mighty seers of jore; 

And with one voice the Thirty 

Have their glad answer given : 
"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena, — 

Go forth, beloved of Heaven ! 
Go, and return in glorj 

To Clusium's royal dome, 
And hang round Nurscia's altars 

The golden shields of Rome !" 

And now hath every city 

Sent up her tale of men; 
The foot are fourscore thousand, 

The horse are thousands ten. 
Before the gates of Sutrium 

Is met the great array ; 
A proud man was Lars Porsena 

Upon the trysting-day. 



Now, from the rock Tarpeian, 

Could the wan burghers spy 
The line of blazing villages 

Red in the midnight sky. 
The Fathers of the City, 

They sat all night and day, 
For every hour some horseman came 

With tidings of dismay. 



I wist, in all the Senate 

There was no heart so bold 
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 

When that ill news was told. 
Forthwith ujj rose the Consul, 

Up rose the Fathers all ; 
In haste they girded up their gowns, 

And hied them to the wall. 

They held a council, standing 

Before the River-gate; 
Short time was there, ye well may Iguess, 

For musing or debate. 
Out spake the Consul roundly: 

" The bridge must straight go down ; 
For, since Janiculum is lost, 

Naught else can save the town." 



Just then a scout came flying. 

All wild with haste and fear: 
" To arms ! to arms ! Sir Consul ! — 

Lais Porsena is here" 
On the low hills to westward 

The Consul fixed his eye. 
And saw the swarthy storm of dust 

Rise fast along the skv. 



But the Consul's brow was sad, 

And the Consul's speech was low, 
And darkly looked he at the wall, 

And darkly at the foe : 
" Their van will be upon us 

Before the bridge goes down ; 
And if they once may win the bridge, 

What hope to save the town.^" 

Then out spake brave Horatius, 

The Captain of the gate : 
" To every man upon this eaith 

Death cometh soon or late. 
And how can man die better 

Than facing fearful odds 
For the ashes of his fathers 

And the temples of his gods, 

" And for the tender mother. 

Who dandled him to rest. 
And for the wife who nurses 

His baby at her breast. 
And for the holy maidens 

Who feed the eternal flame, — 
To save them from false Sextus 

That wrought the deed of shame.* 

" Hew down the bridge. Sir Consul, 

With all the speed ye may ; 
I, with two more to help me, 

Will hold the foe in play. 
In yon straight path a thousand 

May well be stopped by three: 
Now who will stand on either hand, 

And keep the bridge with me.'"' 

Then out spake Spurius Lartius, — 
A Ramnian proud was he: 

" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, 
And keep the bridge with thee." 



OF POETRJ- AND SONG. 



431 



I 



And out spake strong Herminius, — 

Of Titian blood was he : 
" I will abide on thy left side, 

And keep the bridge with thee." 

The three stood calm and silent, 

And looked upon the foes, 
And a great shout of laughter 

From all the vanguard rose; 
And forth three chiefs came spurring 

Before that deep array ; 
To earth they sprang, their swords they 

drew. 
And lifted high their shields, and flew 

To win the narrow way. 

Annus, from green Tifernum, 

Lord of the Hill of Vines; 
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves 

Sicken in Ilva's mines; 
And Picus, long to Clusium 

Vassal in peace and war. 
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers 
From that gray crag, Avhere, girt with 

towers, 
The fortress of Nequinum lowers 

O'er the pale waves of Nar. 

Stout Lartius hurled down Annus 

Into the stream beneath ; 
Herminius struck at Seius, 

And clove him to the teeth ; 
At Picus brave Horatius 

Darted one liery thrust, 
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms 

Clashed in the bloody dust. 

Then Ocnus of Falerii 

Rushed on the Roman three; 
And Lausulus of Urgo, 

The rover of the sea; 
And Aruns of Volsinium, 

Who slew the great wild boar, — 
The great wild boar that had his den 
Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen. 
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men. 

Along Albinia's shore. 



Herminius smote down Aruns; 

Lartius laid Ocnus low; 
Right to the heart of Lausulus 

Horatius sent a blow: 
" Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate ! 

No more, aghast and pale, 
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark 
The track of thy destroying bark; 
No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
To woods and caverns, when they spy 

Thy thrice-accursed sail !" 

But now no sound of laughter 

Was heard among the foes; 
A wild and wi-athful clamor 

From all the vanguard rose. 
Six spear's length from the entrance, 

Halted that mighty mass, 
And for a space no man came forth 

To win the narrow pass. 

But, hark ! the crv is Astur : 

And lo! the ranks divide; 
And the great lord of Luna 

Comes with his stately stride. 
Upon his ample shoulders 

Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
And in his hand he shakes the brand 

Which none but he can wield. 

He smiled on those bold Romans, 

A smile serene and high ; 
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 

And scorn was in his eye. 
Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter 

Stand savagely at bay ; 
But will ye dare to follow 

If Astur clears the wa\ ?" 

Then, whirling up his broadsword 
With both hands to the height. 

He rushed against Horatius, 
And smote with all his might. 

With shield and blade Horatius 
Right deftly turned the blow. 

The blow, though turned, came yet too 
nigh ; 

It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh. 



4:i3 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
To see the red blood flow. 

He reeled, and on Herminius 

He leaned one breathing-space, 
Then, like a wildcat mad with wounds, 

Sprang right at Astur's face. 
Through teeth and skull and helmet 

So fierce a thrust he sped, 
The good sword stood a handbreadth out 

Behind the Tuscan's head. 

And the great lord of Luna 

Fell at that deadly stroke. 
As falls on Mount Avernus 

A thunder-smitten oak. 
Far o'er the crashing forest 

The giant arms lie spread; 
And the pale augurs, muttering low. 

Gaze on the blasted head. 

On Astur's throat Horatius 

Right firmly pressed his heel. 
And thrice or four times tugged amain 

Ere he wrenched out the steel. 
" And see," he cried, " the welcome. 

Fair guests, that waits you here ! 
What noble Lucomo comes next 

To taste oiu- Roman cheer.'*" 

But at his haughty challenge 

A sullen murmur ran. 
Mingled with wrath and shame and dread, 

Along that glittering van. 
There lacked not men of prowess, 

Nor men of lordly race, 
For all Etruria's noblest 

Were round the fatal place. 

But all Etruria's noblest 

Felt their hearts sink to see 
On the earth the bloody corpses. 

In the path the dauntless three; 
And from the ghastly entrance. 

Where those bold Romans stood, 
All shrank, — like boys who, unaware, 
Ranging a wood to start a hare. 
Come to the mouth of the dark lair 



Where, growling low, a fierce old bear 

Lies amidst bones and blood. 

Was none who would be foremost 

To lead such dire attack; 
But those behind cried " Forward !" 

And those before cried " Back!" 
And backward now and forward 

Wavers tlie deep array ; 
And on the tossing sea of steel 
Too and fro the standards reel, 

And the victorious trumpet-peal 

Dies fitfully away. 

Yet one man for one moment 

Strode out before the crowd ; 
Well known was he to all the three, 

And they gave him greeting loud : 
" Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 

Now welcome to thy home! 
Why dost thou stay, and turn away.' 

Here lies the road to Rome." 

Thrice looked he at the city ; 

Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
And thrice came on in fury, 

And thrice turned back in dread ; 
And, white with fear and hatred, 

Scowled at the narrow way 
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood* 

The bravest Tuscans lay. 

But meanwhile ax and lever 

Have manfully been plied; 
And now the bridge hangs tottering 

Above the boiling tide. 
" Come back, come back, Horatius!" 

Loud cried the Fathers all, — 
"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 

Back, ere the ruin fall !" 

Back darted Spurius Lartius, 

Herminius darte^d back ; 
And, as they passed, beneath their feet 

They felt the timbers crack. 
But when they turned their faces, 

And, on the farther shore 
.Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 

They would have crossed once more; 



OF POETRY 


1 
AND SONG. 433 i 


But witli a crash like thunder 


But friends and foes in dumb surprise, 


Fell every loosened beam, 


With parted lips and straining eyes. 


And, like a dam, the mighty wreck 


Stood gazing where he sank ; 


Lay right athwart the stream. 


And when above the surges 


And a long shout of triumph 


They saw his crest appear. 


Rose from the walls of Rome, 


All Rome sent forth a rapturous crv, 


As to the highest turret-tops 


And even the ranks of Tuscany 


Was splashed the yellow foam. 


Could scarce forbear to cheer. 


And like a horse unbroken, 


But fiercely ran the current. 


When first he feels the rein, 


Swollen high by months of rain; 


The furious river struggled hard, 


And fast liis blood was flowing, 


And tossed his tawny mane. 


And he was sore in pain, 


And burst the curb, and bounded, 


And heavy with his armor. 


Rejoicing to be free; 


And spent with changing blows; 


And, whirling down, in fierce career. 


And oft they thought him sinking. 


Battlement and plank and pier. 


But still again he rose. 


Rushed headlong to the sea. 


Never, I ween, did swimmer, 


Alone stood brave Horatius, 
But constant still in mind,^ 


In such an evil case, 
Struggle through such a raging flood 


Thrice thirty thousand foes before, 
And the broad flood behind. 

"Down with him!" cried false Sextus, 
With a smile on his pale face; 


Safe to tiie landing-place; 
But his limbs were borne up bravelv 

By the brave heart within. 
And our good Father Tiber 


" Now yield thee,"' cried Lars Porsena, 


Bare bravely up his chin. 


" Now yield thee to our grace!" 


" Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus, — 


Round turned he, as not deigning 
Those craven ranks to see; 

Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 
To Sextus naught spake he; 

But he saw on Palatinus 

The white porch of his home; 

And he spake to the noble river 


" Will not the villain drown.' 
But for this stay, ere close of day 

We should have sacked the town!" 
" Heaven help him !" quoth Lars Porsena, 

And bring him safe to shore; 
For such a gallant feat of arms 

Was never seen before." 


That rolls by the towers of Rome: 


And now he feels the bottom; 




Now on dry earth he stands; 


"O Tiber! Father Tiber! 


Now round him throng the Fathers 


To whom the Romans pray, 


To press his gory hands; 


A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, 


And now, with shouts and clapping, 


Take thou in charge this day !" 


And noise of weeping loud. 


So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 


He enters through the River-gate, 


The good sword by his side, 


Borne by the jo\ ous crowd. 


And, with his harness on his back. 




Plunged headlong in the tide. 


They gave him of the corn-land, 




That was of public right. 


No sound of joy or sorrow . 
Was heard from Either bank, 


As much as two strong oxen 


Could plow from morn till night; 



434 ILL US TRA TED HOME . BOOK 


And they made a molten image, 


How well Horatius kept the bridge 


And set it up on higli, — 


In the brave days of old. 


And there it stands unto this day 




To witness if I lie. 


Thomas Babington Macaulay. 


It stands in the Comitium, 
Plain for all folk to see, — 






Iloratius in his harness, 




Halting upon one knee ; 


THE FIRE BY THE SEA. 


And underneath is wiitten, 




In letters all of gold, 


There were seven fishers with nets in 


How valiantly he kept the bridge 


their hands. 


In the brave days of old. 


And they walked and talked by the sea- 




side sands; 


And still his name sounds stirring 


Yet sweet as the sweet dew-fall 


Unto the men of Rome, 


The words they spake, though they spake 


As the trumpet-blast that cries to them 


so low. 


To charge the Volscian home ; 


Across the long, dim centuries flow. 


And wives still pray to Juno 


And we know them, one and all, — 


For boys with hearts as bold 


Ay! know them and love them all. 


As his who kept the bridge so well 




In the brave days of old. 


Seven sad men in the days of old. 




And one was gentle, and one was bold. 


And in the nights of winter. 


And they walked with downcast eyes; 


When the cold north winds blow. 


The bold was Peter, the gentle was John, 


And the long howling of the wolves 


And they all were sad, for the Lord was 


Is heard amidst the snow; 


gone. 


When round the lonely cottage 


And they knew not if he would rise, — 


Roars loud the tempest's din. 


Knew not if the dead would rise. 


And the good logs of Algidus 




Roar louder yet within. 


The livelong night, till the moon went out. 




In the drowning waters they beat about: 


When the oldest cask is opened. 


Beat slow through the fogs their way, 


And the largest lamp is lit; 


And the sails dropped down with ringing 


When the chestnuts glow in the embers, 


wet. 


And the kid turns on the spit; 


And no man drew but an empty pet; 


When young and old in circle 


And now 'twas the break of the day, — 


Around the firebrands close; 


The great glad break of the day. 


When the girls are weaving baskets, 




And the lads are shaping bows ; 


" Cast your nets on the other side " — 




('Tvvas Jesus speaking across the tide) 


When the goodman mends his armor, 


And they cast and were dragging hard ; 


And trims his helmet's plume; 


But that disciple whom Jesus loved 


When the goodwife's shuttle merrily 


Cried straightway out, for his heart was 


Goes flashing through the loom; 


moved : 


With weeping and with laughter 


" It is our risen Lord, — 


Still is the story told, 


Our Master, and our Lord ! " 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



435 



Then Simon, girding his fisher's coat, 
Went over the nets out of the boat, — 

Ay! first of tliem all was he; 
Repenting sore the dismal past. 
He feared no longer his heart to cast 
Like an anchor into the sea, — 
Dawn deep in the hungry sea. 

And the others, through the mists so dim, 
In a little ship came after him. 

Dragging their nets through the tide ; 
And when thev had gotten close to the 

land 
They saw a fire of coals in the sand, 

And, with arms of love so wide, 

Jesus, the crucified! 

'Tis long, and long, and long ago. 
Since the rosy lights began to flow 

O'er the hills of Galilee ; 
And with eager eyes and lifted hands 
The seven fishers saw on the sands 
The fire of coals by the sea, — 
On the wet, wild sands by the sea. 

''Tis long ago, yet faith in our souls 
Is kindled just by that fire of coals 

That streamed o'er the mists of the sea ; 
Where Peter, girding his fisher's coat. 
Went over the net and out of the boat, 
To answer, " Lovest thou me.'" 
Thrice over, " Lovest thou me.'"' 

Alice Gary. 



DORIS, THE SHEPHERD MAIDEN. 

I s.\T with Doris the shepherd maiden. 
Her crook was laden with wreathed 
flow ers ; 
I sat and wooed her thro' sunlight Avheeling 
And shadows stealing for hours and 
hours. 

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses 
Wild summer-roses of faint perfume, 



The while I sued her, kept hushed and 
hearkened 
Till sliadows had darkened from gloss to 
gloom. 

She touched my shoulder with fearful fin- 
ger, 

She said " We linger, we must not stay. 
My flock's in danger, my sheep will Avander, 

Behold them yonder how far they stray." 

I answered bolder, "jnay let me hear you, 
And still be near you, and still adore, 

No wolf nor stranger shall touch one year- 
ling. 
Ah! stay my darling, one moment more." 

She whispered sighing;— "There will be 
son-ow 

Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day; 
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded, 

I shall be scolded and sent away." 

Said I replying, " If they do miss you 
They ought to kiss you when you get 
home. 

And well rewarded by friend and neighbor 
Shall be the'labor from which you come." 

" They might remember," she answered 
meekly, 
" That lambs are weak, and sheep are 
wild, 
But if tlpiey love me, it's none too fervent, 
I am a servant and not a child." 

Then each hot ember glowed quick with- 
in me 
And love did win me to swift reply, 
" Ah! do but prove me and none shall bind 
you 
Nor fray nor find you until I die." 

She blushed and started and stood awaiting 
As if debating in dreams divine, 

But I did brave them, I told her plainly 
She doubted vainly she must be mine. 



436 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



So we twin-hearted from all the valley 

Did rouse and rally, her nibbling ewes 
And homeward drove them, we two to- 
gether 
Thro' blooming heather and gleaming 
dews. 

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling 
With love excelling and undetiled; 

And love doth guard her both fast and 
fervent 
No more a servant, nor yet a child. 

Anonymous. 



A LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF 
GLENCAIRN. 

The early death of the Earl of Glencairn robbed 
the poet of an intellig^ent friend and patron. Burns 
enclosed the "Lament" in a letter to I-ady Eliza- 
beth Cunningham, the sister of the Earl, from which 
we quote the tollowing:— " My heart glows and 
shall ever glow, with the most gratified sense and 
remembrance of his lordship's goodness. The 
sables I did myself the honour to wear to his lord- 
ship's memory were not the ' mockery of woe,' nor 
shtill my gratitude perish with lue! If among my 
children, I shall have a son that has a heart, he shall 
hand it down to his child as a family honour and a 
family debt, that my noblest existence I owe to the 
noble house of Glencairn." 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam, 
Looked on the fading yellow woods 

That waved o'er Lugar's winding stream 
Beneath a craigy steep a bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain. 
In loud lament bewailed his lord 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He leaned him to an ancient aik, 

Whose trunk was mouldering down with 
years; 
His locks were bleached white with time. 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears 
And as he touched his trembling harp. 

And as he tuned his doleful sang; 
The winds lamenting through their caves 

To Echo bore the notes alang: — 



" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal choir! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honors of the aged year ! 
A few short months and glad and gay, 

Again ve'll charm the ear and ee; 
But nocht in all revolving time, 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending, aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and rain; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hold of earth is gane; 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 
But I maun lie before the storm 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

I've seen sae mony changefu' years. 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men 

Alike unknowing and unknown; 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bear alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust. 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

And last, (the sum of a' my griefs! ) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flower amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride — his country's stay! 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead 
And hope has left my aged ken 

On forward wing forever tied. 

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! 

The voice of woe and wild despair; 
Awake! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair! 
And thou my last, best, only friend 

That fillest an untimely tomb 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest 
gloom. 

" In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round: 
Though oft I turned the wistful eye; 

Nae rav of fame was to be found; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



437 



Thou found'st me like the morning sun 
That melts the fogs in limpid air — 

The friendless bard and rustic song 
Became alike thy fostering care, 

" Oh I why has worth so short a date 

While villains ripen gray with time 
Must thou, the noble, generous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe! — 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low! 

" The bridegroom mav forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen: 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been: 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn 

And a' that thou hast done for me." 

Robert Burns. 



BOADICEA. 

When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country's gods. 

Sage beneath the spreading oak, 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief. 

Every burning word he spoke 

Was full of rage, and full of grief, 

*' Princess ! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

'Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

" Rome shall perish — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

" Rome for empire far renowned 
Tramples on a thousand Slates; 



Soon her pride shall kiss the ground — 
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! 

" Other Romans shall arise, 
Heedless of a soldier's name; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony's the path to fame. 

"Then the progeny that springs, 
From the forests of our land, 

Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

♦ 
" Regions Caesar never knew 

Thy posterity shall sway ; 

Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they." 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire. 

Bending as he swept the chgrds 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She with all a monarch's pride 
Felt them in her bosom glow. 

Rushed to battle, fought and died. 
Dying hurl'd them at the foe. 

Ruffians, pitiless as proud. 

Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
Empire is on us bestowed. 

Shame and ruin wait for you. 

William Cowper. 



EACH AND ALL. 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked 

clown. 
Of thee from the hill-top looking down; 
The heifer that lows in the upland larm, 
Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; 
The sexton, tolling his bell at noon. 
Deems not that great Napoleon 
Stops his horse, and lists with delight. 
Whilst his files sweep round \o\\ Alpine 

height; 
Nor knowest thou what argument 
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 



438 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



All are needed by each one; 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 

Singing at dawn on the alder bough; 

I brought him home, in his nest, at even; 

He sings the song, but it pleases not now, 

For I did not bring home the river and 

sky;— 
He sang to my eai, — they sang to my eye. 
The delicate shells lay on the shore; 
The bubbles of the latest wave 
Fresh pearls to their enamel gave; 
And the bellowing of the savage sea 
Greeted their safe escape to me. 
I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
I fetched my sea-born treasures home; 
But the ];oor, unsightly, noisome things 
Had left their beauty on the shore. 
With the sun and the sand and the wild 

uproar. 
The lover watched his graceful maid. 
As mid the virgin train she strayed, 
Nor knew her beauty's best attire 
Was woven still by the snow-white choir, 
At last she came to his hermitage, 
Like the bird from the woodlands to the 

cage ; — 
The gav enchantment was undone, 
A gentle wife, but fairy none. 
Then I said, " I covet truth; 

Beauty is imripe childhood's cheat; 

I leave it behind with the games of youth. " 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath. 

Running over the club-moss burrs; 

I inhaled the violet's breath ; 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 

Over me soared the eternal sky, 

Full of light and of Deity ; 

Again I saw, again I heard, 

The rolling river, the mourning bird; — 

Beauty through my senses stole; 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

[Composed by Burns, in September, 17S9, on the 
anniversary ot the day on which he lieardofthe 
death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] 

Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest.' 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid.'' 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast.? 

That sacred hour can I forget, — 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love.'' 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening 
green ; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 

Twined amorous round the raptured 
scene; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray, — 
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes 

And fondly broods with miser care! 
Time but the impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Wfiere is thy place of blissful rest.'' 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid.'' 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast } 

Robert Burns. 




MUTABILITY. 

The flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow dies; 
All that we wish to stay 

Tempts, and then flies; 
What is this world's delight ? 
Lightning that mocks the night, 
Brief even as briglit. 

Virtue, how frail it is! 

Friendship too rare! 
Love, how it sells poor bliss 

For proud despair ! 
But we, though soon they fall, 
V Survive their joy, and all 
Which ours we call. 

Whilst skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay 

Whilst eyes that change ere night 
Make glad the day, 

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, 

Dream thou ! and from thy sleep 

Then wake to weep. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 



440 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



DE PROFUNDIS. 

THE TWO GREETINGS. 

Out of the deep, mj child, out of the deep, 
Where all that was to be, in all that was, 
Whirl'd for a million ions through the vast 
Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying 

light- 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep. 
Thro' all this changing world of changeless 

law, 
And every phase of ever-heightening life, 
And nine long months of ante-natal gloom. 
With this kist moon, this crescent — her dark 

orb 
Touch'd with earth's light — thou comest, 

darling boy ; 
Our own ; a babe in lineament and limb 
Perfect, and prophet of the perfect man ; 
Whose face and form are hers and mine in 

one, 
Indissolubly married like our love; 
Live, and be happy in thyself, and serve 
This mortal race thy kin so well, that men 
May bless thee as we bless thee, O young 

life 
Breaking with laughter from the dark; and 

may 
The fated channel where thy motion lives 
Be prosperously shaped, and sway thy 

course 
Along the years of haste and random youth 
Unshattered ; then full-current thro' full 

man; 
And last in kindly curves, with gentlest fall. 
By quiet fields, a slowly-dying power. 
To that last deep where we and thou art still. 

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep, 
From that great deep, before our world be- 
gins, 
Whereon the Spirit of God moves as He 

will — 
Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep. 
With this ninth moon, that sends the hidden 

sun 
Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling 
boy. 



For in the world, which is not ours. They 

said 
" Let us make man" and that which should 

be man, 
From that one light no man can look upon, 
Drew to this shore lit by the suns and 

moons 
And all the shadows. O dear Spirit half- 
lost 
In thine own shadow and this fleshly sign 
That thou art thou — who wailest being 

born 
And banish'd into mystery, and the pain 
Of this divisible-indivisible world. 
Among the numerable-innumerable 
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite space 
In finite-infinite Time — our mortal veil 
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite One, 
Who made thee unconceivably thyself 
Out of His -whole world-self and all in all — 
Live thou! and of the grain and husk, the 

grape 
And ivyberry, choose; and still depart 
From death to death thro' life and life, and 

find 
Nearer and ever nearer Him, who wrought 
Not matter, nor the finite-infinite, 
But this main-miracle, that thou art thou. 
With power on thine own act and on the 

world. 

THE HUMAN CRY. 

Hallowed be Thy name — Hallelujah! — 

Infinite Ideality! 

Immeasurable Reality! 

Infinite Personality ! 
Hallowed be Thy name — Hallelujah ! — 

We feel we are nothing — for all is Thou and 

in Thee; 
We feel we are something — that also has 

come from Thee : 
We know we are nothing — but Thou wilt 

help us to be. 
Hallowed be Thy name — Hallelujah! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



441 



JIM. 

Say there ! P'r'aps 
Some on you chaps 
Might know Jim Wild? 

Well, — no offence : 

Thar aint no sense 
In gettin' riled! 

Jim was my chum 

Up on the Bar : 
That's why I come 

Down from up thar, 
Lookin' for Jim. 
Thank ye, sir! you 
Ain't of that crew — 

Blest if you are ! 

Money .^ — not much : 
That ain't my kind ; 

I ain't no such. 

Rum.' — I don't mind, 
Seein' it's you. 

Well, this yer Jim, 
Did you know him .' — 
Jess 'bout your size; 
Same kind of eyes.'* — 
Well, that is strange: 
Why it's two year 
Since he come here, 
Sick, for a change. 

Well, here's to us; 

Eh.' 
The deuce you say ! 

Dead .?— 
That little cuss? 

What makes you star, — 

You over thar? 

Can't a man drop 

's glass in yer shop 

But you must rar? 
It wouldn't take 
Denied much to break 

You and vour bar. 



Dead ! 
Poor— little— Jim ! 
— Why there was me, 
Jones, and Bob Lee, 
Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 
Then to take him! 

Well, thar,— Good by,— 
No more, sir, — I — 

Eh? 
What's that you say.' — 
Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
No? Yes! By Jo! 

Sold! 
Sold! Why you limb. 
You ornery, 
Derned old 
Long-legged Jimi 

F. Bret Harte. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 

FROM COMMEMORATION ODE. 

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 

Whom late the nation he had led. 

With ashes on her head 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
Forgive me, if from present things I tun> 
To speak what in my heart will beat and 

burn, 
And hang my wreath on his world-hon- 
ored urn. 

Nature they say doth dote 

And cannot make a man 

Save on some worn-out plan. 

Repeating as by rote: 
For him her Old World moulds aside she 

threw. 
And choosing sweet clay from the breast 

Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff" untainted shaped a hero new. 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God and 
true. 

How beautiful to see 



443 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to 

lead; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to 
be, 

Not lured by any cheat of birth, 
But by his clear-grained human worth 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
They knew that outward grace is dust; 
They could not choose but trust 
In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill 

And supple temjiered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again 

and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 
A sea-mark now, now lost in vapors blind; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, 
Yet also nigh to heaven, and loved of loft- 
iest stars. 

Nothing of Europe here. 
Or, then, of Europe, fronting mornward 
still. 

Ere any naines of Serf and Peer 

Could Nature's equal scheme deface, 

Here was a type of the true elder race. 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us 

face to face. 
I praise him not; it were too late; 
And some innative weakness there must be 
To him who condescends to victory. 
Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait 

Safe in himself as in a fate. 

So always firmly he: 

He knew to bide his time. 

And can his fame abide. 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime. 

Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains with their guns and drums. 
Disturb our judgment for the hour. 

But at last silence comes; 
These all are gone, and standing like a ; 

tower. 
Our children shall behold his fame. 
The kindly, earnest, brave, foreseeing man, 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not 
blame. 



New birtli of our near soil. 
The first American. 



James Russell Lowell. 



DO THIS IN REMEMBRANCE OF 

ME." 

When the Paschal evening fell 
Deep on Kedron's hallowed dell. 
When around the festal board 
Sate the Apostles with their Lord, 
Then His parting word he said. 
Blessed the cup and broke the bread— 
" This whene'er ye do or see, 
Evermore remember Me." 

Years have passed; in every clime. 
Changing with the changing time, 
Varying through a thousand forms, 
Torn by factions, rock'd by storms. 
Still the sacred table spread. 
Flowing cup and broken bread. 
With that parting word agree, 
" Drink and eat — reinember Me." 

When by treason, doubt, unrest, 
Sink the soul, dismay'd, opprest; 
When the shadows of the tomb 
Close us round with deep'ning gloom; 
Then bethink us at that board 
Of the sorrowing, suffering Lord, 
Who, when tried and grieved as we, 
Dying, said, " Remember Me." 

When, thro' all the scenes of life. 
Hearths of peace and fields of strife, 
Friends or foes together meet. 
Now to part and now to greet, 
Let those holy tokens tell 
Of that sweet and sad farewell, 
And, in mingled grief, or glee. 
Whisper still, " Remember Me." 

When diverging creeds shall learn 
Toward their central source to turn; 
When contending churches tire 
Of the earthquake, wind, and fire; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



443 



Here let strife and clamour cease 
At that still, small voice of peace — 
"May they all united be 
In the Father and in Me." 

When, as rolls the sacred year. 
Each fresh note of love we hear; 
When the Babe, the Youth, the Man, 
Full of grace Divine we scan ; 
When the mournful Way we tread, 
Where for us His blood He shed; 
When on Easter morn we tell 
How He conquer'd Death and Hell ; 
When we watch His Spirit true 
Heaven and earth transform anew; 
Then with quicken'd sense we see 
Why He said " Remember Me." 

When in this Thanksgiving feast 
We would give to God our best, 
From the treasures of His might 
Seeking life and love and light; 
Then, O friend of human kind, 
Make us true and firm of mind, 
Pure of heart, in spirit free — 
Thus may we remember Thee. 

Dean Stanley. 



THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 

The blessed damozel leaned out 
From the gold bar of heaven; 

Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
Of waters stilled at even; 

She had three lilies in her hand, 

And the stars in her hair were seven. 

Her robe, imgirt from clasp to hem, 
No wrought flowers did adorn. 

But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
For service neatly worn ; 

Her hair that lay along her back 
Was yellow like ripe corn. 

Her seemed she scarce had been a day 
One of God's choristers; 



The wonder was not yet quite gone 

From that still look of hers; 
Albeit, to them she left, her day 

Had counted as ten years 

It was the rampart of God's house 

That she was standing on; 
By God built over the sheer depth 

The which is space begun; 
So high, that looking downward thence 

She scarce could see the sun. 

It lies in heaven, across the flood 

Of ether, as a bridge. 
Beneath, the tides of day and night 

With flame and darkness ridge 
The void, as low as where this earth 

Spins like a fretful midge. 

Heard hardly, some of her new friends 

Amid their loving games 
Spake evermore among themselves 

Their virginal chaste names; 
And the souls mounting up to God 

Went by her like thin flames. 

And still she bowed herself and stopped 

Out of the circling charm ; 
Until her bosom must have made 

The bar she leaned on warm. 
And the lilies lay as if asleep 

Along her bended arm. 

From the fixed place of heaven she saw 

Time like a pulse shake fierce 
Through all the w6rlds. Her gaze still 
strove 

Within the gulf to pierce 
The path ; and now she spoke as when 

The stars sang in their spheres. 
****** 
" I wish that he were come to me, 

For he will come," she said. 
" Have I not prayed in heaven? — on earth. 

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed.' 
Are not two prayers a perfect strength.' 

And shall I feel afraid? " 



444 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



She gazed and listened, and then said, 
Less sad of speech than mild, — 

■"All this is when he comes." She ceased. 
The light thrilled toward her, filled 

With angels in strong level flight. 
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 

{I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
Was vague in distant spheres; 

And then she cast her arms along 
The golden barriers, 

And laid her face between her hands, 
And wept. (I heard her tears.) 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 



THE SINGER OF AN EMPTY DAY. 

■Of heaven or hell I have no power to sing, 
I cannot ease the burden of your fears. 
Or make quick coming death a little thing. 
Or bring again the pleasure of past years. 
Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears. 
Or hope again for aught that I can say, 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

But rather when aweary of your mirth, 
Froin full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh. 
And feeling kindly unto all the earth, 
•Grudge every minute as it passes by. 
Made the more mindfui that the sweet days 

die — 
— Remember me a little, then, I pray. 
The idle singer of an empty day. 

The heavy trouble, the bewildering care. 
That weighs us down who live and earn 

our bread. 
These idle verses have no power to bear. 
So let me sing of names remembered. 
Because they living not, can ne'er be dead. 
Or long time take their memory quite 

away 
Prom us poor singers of an empty day. 



Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due 

time, 
Wh}' should I strive to set the crooked 

straight } 
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme 
Beats with light wings against the ivory 

gate, 
Telling a tale not too importunate 
To those who in the sleepy region stay, 
Lulled by the singer of an empty day. 

Folk, say a wizard to a northern king 

At Christmas-tide such wondrous things 

did show. 
That through one window inen beheld the 

spring. 
And through another saw the summer glow. 
And through a third the fruited vines a-row, 
While still, unheard, but in its wonted way, 
Piped the drear wind of that December day. 

So with this earthy paradise it is. 
If ye will read aright and pardon me, 
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss, 
Midmost the beating of the steely sea. 
Where tossed about all hearts of men must 

be; 
Whose ravening monsters mighty men 

shall slay. 
Not the poor singer of an empty day. 

William Morris. 



HOW IT HAPPENED. 

I pray you pardon me, Elsie, 

And smile that frown away 
That drives the light of your lovely face 

As a thunder-cloud the day. 
I reallv could not help it, — 

Before I thought, 'twas done, — 
And those great grey eyes flashed bright 
and cold. 

Like an icicle in the sun. 

I was thinking of the summers 
When we were boys and girls, 



1 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



445 



And wandered in the blossoming woods, 
And the gay winds romped with jour 
curls. 

And jou seemed to me the same little girl 
I kissed in the alder-path, 

I kissed the little girl's lips, and alas! 
There roused a woman's wraUi. 

There is not so much to pardon, — 

For why were jour lips so red ? 
The blonde hair tell in a shower of gold 

From the proud provoking head. 
And the beautj that tlashed from the splen- 
did ejes, 

And played around the tender mouth, 
Rushed over mj soul like a warm sweet 
wind, 

That blows from the iragrant south. 

And where, after all, is the harm done.' 

I believe we were made to be gaj. 
And all of youth not given to love 

Is vainlj squandered awav. 
And strewn through life's low labors, 

Like gold in the desert sands, 
Are love's swift kisses, and sighs, and vows 

And the clasp of clinging hands. 

And when jou are old and lonelj, 

In memorj's magic shrine, 
You will see on vour thin and wasted hands. 

Like gems, these kisses of mine. 
And when jou muse at evening, 

At the sound of some vanished name. 
The ghost of mj kisses shall touch your 
lips, 

And kindle your heart to flame. 

John Hay. 



GIVE ME THE OLD. 

Old wine to drink ! — 
Ay, give the slippery juice 
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose 
Within the tun; 



Plucked from beneath the clift" 
Of sunnj-sided Tener:fie, 

And ripened 'neath the blink 

Of India's sun! 

Peat whiskej hot. 
Tempered with well-boiled water! 
These make the long night shorter,— 

Forgetting not 
Good stout old English porter. 

Old wood to burn ! — 
Aj, bring the hill-side beech 
From where the owlets meet and screech, 

And ravens croak ; 
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet; 
Bring too a clump of fragrant peat, 
Dug 'neath the fern; 

The knotted oak, 

A faggot too, perhap, 
Whose bright flame, dancing, winking, 
Shall light us at our drinking: 

While the oozing sap 
Shall make sweet music to our thinking. 

Old books to read ! — 
Av, bring those nodes of wit, 
The brazen-clasped, the vellum writ. 

Time honored tomes! 
The same my sire scanned before, 
The same my grandsire thumbed o'er, 
The same his sire from college bore, 
The well-earned meed 

Of Oxford's domes : 

Old Homer blind. 
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by 
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie; 
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie, 
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay! 
And Gervase Markham's venerie 

Nor leave behind 
The Holye Book by which we live and die. 

Old friends to talk !— 
Ay, bring those chosen few, 
The wise, the courtly, and the true. 

So rarely found ; 
Him for my wine, him for my stud, 
Him for my easel, distich, bud 



446 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



In mountain walk! 

Bring Walter good : 
With soulful Fred; and learned Will, 
And thee, mj alter ego, (dearer still 

For every mood). 

Robert Hinckley Messinger. 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

O, the days are gone when beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove 1 
When my dream of life, from morn till 
night. 

Was love, still love! 
New hope may bloom. 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam. 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 
O, there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream ! 

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 

When wild youth's past; 
Though he win the wise, who frowned be- 
fore, 

To smile at last; 

He'll never meet 

A joy so sweet 
In all his noon of fame 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame. 
And, at every close, she blushed to hear 

The one loved name ! 

O, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot. 

Which first love traced; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory's waste! 
'Twas odor fled 
As soon as shed ; 
'T was morning's v^inged dream ; 
'T was a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream ! 
O, 'twas light that ne'er can shine again 
On life's dull stream ! 

Thomas Moore. 



THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 

The snow had begun in the gloaming. 

And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 

With a silence deep and white. 

Every pine and fir and hemlock 
Wore ermine too dear for an earl. 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came Chanticleer's muflled crow, 

The stift' rails were softened to swans-down> 
And still fluttered down the snow. 

I stood and watched by the window 

The noiseless work of the sky. 
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 

Like brown leaves whirling by. 

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
Where a little headstone stood ; 

How the flakes were folding it gently. 
As did robins the babes" in the wood. 

Up spoke our own little Mabel, 

Saving, " Father, who makes the snow.''^ 
And I told of the good All-father 

Who cares for us here below, 

Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
And thought of the leaden sky 

That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
When that mound was heaped so high. 

I remembered the gradual patience 
That fell from that cloud like snow. 

Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 

And again to the child I whispered, 

" The snow that husheth all. 
Darling, the merciful Father 

Alone can make it fall !" 

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 

Folded close under deepening snow. 

James Russell Lowell. 



OF POETRT 


AND SONG. 447 


MAUD OF BOHEMIA. 


A whisper and then a silence; 




Yet I know by their merry eyes 


You meaner beauties of the night, 


They are plotting and planning together 


That poorly satisfy our eyes 


To take me by surprise. 


More by your number than your light, — 




You common people of the skies, 


A sudden rush from the stairway. 


What are you when the moon shall rise? 


A sudden raid from the hall, — 




By three doors left unguarded. 


You curious chanters of the wood, 


They enter my castle wall. 


That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, 




Thinking your passions understood 


They climb up into my turret, 


By your weak accents, — what's your 


O'er the arms and back of my chair; 


praise 


If I try to escape, they surround me: 


When Philomel her voice shall raise? 


They seem to be everywhere. 


You violets that first appear, 


They almost devour me with kisses, 


By your pure purple mantles known. 


Their arms about me entwine. 


Like the proud virgins of the year, 


Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 


As if the spring were all your own, — 


In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 


What are you when the rose is blown? 






Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti. 


So when my mistress shall be seen 


Because you have scaled the wall, 


In form and beauty of her mind : 


Such an old mustache as I am 


By virtue first, then choice, a queen, — 


Is not a match for you all? 


Tell me if she were not designed 




Th' eclipse and glory of her kind? 


I have you fast in my fortress, 




And will not let you depart, 


Sir Henry Wotton. 


But put you into the dungeon 




In the round-tower of my heart. 




And there will I keep you forever, 


THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 


Yes, forever and a day. 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 


Between the dark and the daylight. 


And moulder in dust away. 


When night is beginning to lower. 
Comes a pause in the day's occupations. 


H. W. Longfellow. 


That is known as the children's hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet. 




GOLDENROD. 


The sound of a door that is opened, 
And voices soft and sweet. 


When the slow, field-spider weaves 
'Mong the dry, late-garner'd sheaves, 




And the cricket's ceaseless song 


From my study I see in the lamplight, 


Echoes shrill, the whole night long 


Descending the broad hall stair, 


From the hill. 


Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 


Shorn and still. 


And Edith with golden hair. 


Plaintive pipes the whip-poor-will. 



448 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Bv the brooklet's reedj edge, 
By the dusty, wayside hedge, 
From the fragrant, fertile sod 
Steps my Princess Goldenrod; 

All in state 

Doth she wait, 
When the summer growelh late. 

Motley is her retinue, — 
Di-agon flies in steely blue. 
Mail-clad beetles, warriors bold. 
Bronze-brown bees with belts of gold, 

Courtiers true 

Come to sue, 
Ere the sunshine dries the dew. 

Butterflies with wings outspread, 
Purple richly broidered 
With heraldic, quaint device. 
Timid hares and shy field mice; 

Here they meet 

At her feet, 
In the sultry August heat. 

From no well-kept garden bed 
Doth she lilt her yellow head, 
Gorgeous-hued is she and wild. 
Summer's wayward gypsy child. 

Her rich sprays 

Softly blaze 
By the homely, weed-grown ways. 

In her tawny, tangled hair, 
Spanish colors does she wear, — 
Royal, fervid tints that hold 
All the summer's burning gold; 

And each line, 

Clear and fine, 
GloAvs with exquisite design. 

Know I not in what far place. 
Grew the founders of her race ; 
Who can tell, perchance they sprang 
Where the shepherds piped and sang 

By the sea, 

On those free 
Flowery plains of Arcady. 

Through my idly dreaming brain, 
Princess of the blooming train, 



Oh! how many fancies chase, 
Musing on thy ardent grace. 

Come and go, 

To and fro. 
Like the ocean's rythmic flow. 

If indeed a spirit dwells 
In each flower's scented cells, 
As in classic days of old 
Famous pagan poets told. 

Strong and fine. 

Sure as thine, 
Fiery sweet as Cypress wane. 

Eva Catharine Clapp. 



A VILLAGE SCOLD. 

I' the thrang o' stories tellin', 
Shakin' hands and jokin' queer, 

Swith! a chap comes on the hallan, — 
" Mungo! is our Watty hei-e?" 

Maggy's weel-kent tongue an' hurry 
Darted through him like a knife: 

Up the door flew, like a fury 
In came Watty's scolding wife. 

" Nasty, gude-for-naething being! 

O ye snufl'y, drunken sow! 
Bringing wife and weans to ruin, 

Drinkin' here wi' sic a crew! 

" Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel! 

Drink's your night and day's desire; 
Rise, this j;recious iiOur! oi- taith I'll 

Fling your whiskey i' the fire!" 

Watty heard her tongue unhallowed. 

Paid his groat wi' little din. 
Left the house while Maggie followed, 

Flytin' a' the road behin'. 

Folk frae ever}' door came lampin', 
Maggie cursed them ane and a'. 

Clappit wi' her hands and stampin'. 
Lost her bauchel i' the snaw. 

Hame, at length she turned the gavel, 
Wi' a face as white's a clout, 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



449' 



Ragin' like a very devil, 

Kickin' stools and chairs about. 

" Ye'll sit \vi' your limmers round ye 

Hang you, Sir, I'll be your death! 

Little hands my hands, confound you, 
But I'll cleave you to the teeth!" 

Watty, wha' 'midst this oration 

Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak, 

Sat like patient resignation, 
Trembling by the ingle-cheek. 

Sad his wee drap brose he sippit — 
Maggie's tongue gaed like a bell — 

Quietly to bed he slippit. 
Sighing aften to himsel': 

'■' Nane are free frae some vexation, 

Ilk ane has his ills to dree; 
But through a' the hale creation 

Is nae mortal vexed like me." 

Ale.xander Wilson. 



DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river-lane; 

One after another he let them pass. 
Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willows, and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace; 

The merry whistle for once was still. 

And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy, and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go; 

Two already were lying dead 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But after the evening work was done. 
And the frogs were loud in the meadow- 
swamp, 
Over his shoulder he slung his gun 

And stealthily followed the foot-path 
damp. 



Across the clover and through the wheat 
With resolute heart and purpose grim. 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrving 
feet. 
And the blind bat's flitting startled him.. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,, 
And the orchards sweet with apple- 
bloom ; 
And now, when the cows came back at 
night. 
The feeble father drove them home, 

For news had come to the lonely farm 
That three were lying where two had 
lain ; 

And the old man's tremulous, pal.sied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cool and late. 

He went for the cows when the work 
was done ; 

Biit down the lane, as he opened the gate,. 
He saw them coming one bv one, 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind;. 

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass- 
But who was it following close behind.? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 
The empty sleeve of army blue; 

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair> 
Looked out a face that the lather knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes vawn, 
And yield their dead unto life again ; 

And the day that comes with a cloud v dawn 
In golden glory at last may wane. 

TheJ great tears sprang to their meeting 
eyes ; 
For the heart must speak when the lips 
are dumb; 
And under the silent evening skies 
Together they followed the cattle home. 

Kate Putxam Osgood. 



450 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE COLISEUM. 

Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up her triumphs in one 

dome, 
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams 

shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light which streams here, 

to illume 
This long-explored, but still exhaustless, 

mine 
Of contemplation; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 

assume 

Hues which have words, and speak to je 

of heaven. 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous mon- 
ument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is 

given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time 

hath bent, 
A spirit's feelings, and where he hath 

leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a 

power 
And magic in the ruined battlement. 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are 

its dower. 

****** 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 

In murmured pity, or loud-roared ap- 
plause. 

As man was slaughtered by his fellow- 
man. 

And wherefore slaughtered? Wherefore, 
but because 

Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws. 

And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore 
not.? 

What matters where we fall to fill the 
maws 



Of worms, — on battle-plains or listed 
spot ? 
Both are but theatres where4;he chief actors 
rot. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie; 

He leans upon his hand,— his manly 
brow 

Consents to death, but conquers agony, 

And his drooped head sinks gradually 
low, — 

And through his side the last drops, eb- 
bing slow 

From the red gash, fall heavy, one by 
one, 

Like the first of a thunder-shower; and 
now 

The arena swims around him, — he is 
gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail- 
ed the wretch who won. 

He heard it, but he heeded not, — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far 

away. 
He recked nat of the life he lost nor 

prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube 

There were his young barbarians all at 

play, 
There was their Dacian mother, — he, 

their sire. 
Butchered to make a Roman holidav ! — 
All tills rushed with his blood.— Shall he 

expire 
And unavenged? Arise, ye Goths, and 

glut your ire! 



But here, where Murder breathed her 
bloody stream, 

And here, where buzzing nations choked 
the ways, 

And roared or murmured like a moun- 
tain stream 

Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



451 



Here, where the Roman millions' blame 

or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a 

crowd, 
Mj voice sounds much, — and fall the 

stars' faint rays 
On the arena void, seats crushed, walls 

bowed. 
And galleries, where my steps seem echoes 

strangely loud. 

A ruin, — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Wails, palaces, half-cities, have been 

reared ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have 

appeared. 
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but 

cleared.'' 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is neared ; 
It will not bear the brightness of the day. 
Which streams too much on all years, men, 

have reft away 

But when the rising moon begins to 

climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses 

there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the 

loops of time. 
And the low night-breeze waves along 

the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls 

wear. 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's 

head ; 
When the light shines serene, but doth 

not glare, — 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead ; 
Heroes have trod this spot,— 'tis on their 
dust ye tread. 

" While stands the Coliseum, Rome 

shall stand ; 
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall 

fall: 



And when Rome falls — the World." 

From our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty 

wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to 

call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things 

are still 
On their foundations, and unaltered all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's 

skill, 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, 

or what ye will. 

Lord Byron. 



THE FADED VIOLET. 

What thought is folded in thy leaves! 
What tender thought, what speechless ptuii ! 
I hold thy faded lips to irune. 
Thou darling of the April rain! 

I hold thy faded lips to mine, 
Though scent and azure tint are fled— 
O dry, mute lips! ye are the type 
Of something in me cold and dead: 

Of something wilted like thy leaves; 
Of fragrance flown, of beauty gone; 
Yet, for the love of those white hands 
That found thee, April's earliest-born, — 

That found thee when thy dewy mouth 
Was purple as with stains of wine, — 
For love of her who love forgot, 
I hold thy faded lips to mine. 

That thou shouldst live when I am dead 
When hate is dead, for me, and wron§ 
For this, I use my subtlest art, 
For this, I fold thee in my song. 



Thomas Bailey Aldrici^ 



452 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



GIDEON'S FLEECE. 

All night long on hot Gilboa's mountain, 
With unmoistened breath, the breezes 
blew; 

All night long the green corn in the valley 
Thirsted, thirsted for one drop of dew. 

Came the warrior from his home in Ophrah, 
Sought the white fleece in the mountain 
pass, 

As he heard the crimson morning rustle 
In the dry leaves of the bearded grass. 

Not a pearl was on the red pomegranate, 
Not a diamond in the lily's crown, 

Yet the fleece was heavy with its moisture, 
Wet with dew-drops where no dew rained 
down. 

All night long the dew was on the olives, 
Every dark leaf set in diamond drops ; 

Silver-frosted lay the lowland meadows. 
Silver-frosted all the mountain tops. 

Once again from Ophrah came the chief- 
tain, 
Sought his white fleece 'mid the dewy 
damps, 
As the early sun looked through the wood- 
lands, 
Lighting up a thousand crystal lamps. 

Every bright leaf gave back from its bosom 
Of that breaking sun a semblance rare ; 

All the wet earth glistened like a mirror, 
Yet the fleece lay dry and dewless there. 

Type, strange tvpe, of Israel's early glory, 
Heaven-besprinkled when the earth was 
dry; 

Mystic type, too, of her sad declining. 
Who doth desolate and dewless lie, 

When all earth is glistening in the Pres- 
ence 
Of the Sun that sets not night or dav, 



When the fulness of His Spirit droppeth 
On the islands very far away. 

Dream no more of Israel's sin and sorrow, 
Of her glory and her grievous fall; 

Hath that sacrament of shame and splendor 
To thine own heart not a nearer call.'' 

There are homes whereon the grace of 
Heaven 
Falleth ever softly from above — 

Homes by simple faith and christian duty- 
Steeped in peace, and holiness, and love: 

Churches where the voice of praise and 
blessing 
Droppeth daily like the silver dew, 
Where the earnest lip of love distilleth 
Words, like water running through and 
through. 

There are children trained in truth and 
goodness. 
Graceless, careless in those holy homes. 
There are hearts within those christian 
temples. 
Cold as angels carved upon the domes. 

Places are there sin-defiled and barren, 
Haunts of prayerless lips and ruined 
souls; 

Where some lonely heart in secret filleth 
Cups of mercy, full as Gideon's bowls. 

Where some Christ-like spirit, pure and 
gentle, 

Sheddeth moisture on the desert spot, 
Feels a tender Spirit, in the darkness, 

Dewing all the dryness of his lot. 

Christ! be with us, that these hearts within 
us 

Prove not graceless in this hour of grace; 
Dew of heaven ! ieed us with the sweetness. 

Of Thy Spirit in tlie dewless place. 

Cecil Franxes Alexander. 




Tell her that's young-, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide, 
Thou rnust have unconimended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired; 

Bid her come forth — 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all thing-s rare 

May read in thee — 
How small a part of time they share 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
Edmund Waller. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



455 



THE TEMPLE OF FAME. 

The temple shakes, the sounding gates 

unfold, 
Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted 

gold: 
Raised on a thousand pillars, wreathed 

around 
With laurel foliage, and with eagles 

crowned : 
Of bright, transparent beryl were the walls. 
The freizes gold, and gold the capitals : 
As heav'n with stars, the roof with jewels 

glows, 
And ever-living lamps depend in rows. 
Full in the passage of each spacious gate. 
The sage historians in white garments 

wait; 
Graved o'er their seats the form of Time 

was found, 
His scythe reversed, and both his pinions 

bound. 
Within stood heroes, who through loud 

alarms 
In bloody fields pursued renown in arms. 
High on a throne with trophies charged, I 

viewed 
The youth that all things but himself sub- 
dued; 
His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod, 
And his horned head belied the Libyan 

God. 
There Caesar, graced with both Minervas, 

shone; 
Ceesar, the world's great master, and his 

own ; 
Unmoved, superior still In every state. 
And scarce detested in his country's late. 
But chief were those, who not for empire 

fought, 
But with their toils their people's safety 

bought : 
High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood ; 
Timoleon, glorious in his brother's blood ; 
Bold Scipio, savior of the Roman state; 
Great in his triumphs, in retirement great; 
And wise Aurelius in whose well-taught 

mind 



With boundless power unbounded virtue 
joined, 

His own strict judge, and patron of man- 
kind. 
Much-snuff 'ring heroes next their hon- 
ours claim. 

Those of less noisy, and less guilty fame, 

Fair virtue's silent train : supreme of these 

Here ever shines the god-like Socrates: 

He whom ungrateful Athens could expel, 

At all times just, but when he signed the 
shell: 

Here his abode the martyred Phocion 
claims. 

With Agis, not the last of Spartan names: 

Unconquered Cato shows the wound he tore 

And Brutus his ill genius meets no more. 
But in the centre of the hallowed choir, 

Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire; 

Around the shrine itself of Fame they 
stand. 

Hold the chief honours, and the fane com- 
mand. 

High on the first, the mightv Hoirier shone; 

Eternal adamant composed his throne; 

Father of verse! in holy fillets drest. 

His silver beard waved gently o'er his 
breast; 

Though blind, a boldness in his look ap- 
pears ; 

In years he seemed, but not impaired by 
years. 

The wars of Troy were round the pillar 
seen : 

Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian 
Queen ; 

Here Hector glorious from Patroclus' fall. 

Here dragged in triumph round the Trojan 
wall, 

Motion and life did ev'ry part inspire. 

Bold was the work, and proved the master's 
fire! 

A strong expression most he seemed t' af- 
fect, 

And here and there disclosed a brave neg- 
lect. 

Alexander Pope. 



— — — — » 

456 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


AS I LAYE A-THYNKYNGE. 


There came a level}' childe. 




And his face was meek and milde. 


As I laje a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a- 


Yet joyously he smiled 


thynkynge, 


On his sire; 


Merrie sang the Birde as she sat upon the 


As I laye a-thinkynge, a cherub mote ad. 


spraye : 


mire. 


There came a noble knyghte, 




With his hauberke shynynge brighte, 
And his gallant heart was lyghte, 


As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a- 
thynkynge, 


Free and gaye; 
As I lave a thynkynge, he rode upon his 


And sadly sang the Birde as it perch'd up- 
on a brier: 


waye. 


That joyous smile was gone, 




And the face was white and wan. 


As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a- 


As the downe upon the swan 


thynkynge, 


Doth appear. 


Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the tree : 


As I laye a-thynkynge — oh ! bitter flow'd the 


There seem'd a crimson plain. 


tear ! 


Where a gallant knyghte lay slayne, 




And a steed with broken rein 


As I laye a-thynkynge, the golden sim was j 


Ran free. 


sinking. 


As I lave a-thynkynge, most pitiful to see! 


O merrie sang that Birde as it glitter'd on 




her breast 


As T laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a- 


With a thousand gorgeous dyes. 


thynkynge. 


While soaring to the skies. 


Merrie sang the Binde as she sat upon the 


'Mid the stars she seem'd to rise, 


boughe : 


As to her nest ; 


A lovely mayde came bye. 




And a gentil youth was nyghe. 


As I laye a-thynkynge, her meaning was 


And he breathed many a syghe, 


exprest: — 


And a vowe; 


" Follow, follow me away. 


As I laye a-thynkynge, her heart was glad- 


It boots not to delay," — 


some now. 


'Twas so she seem'd to saye. 




" Here is rest!" 


As I laye a-thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a- 

thynkynge, 


Thomas Barham. 


Sadly sang the Birde as she sat upon the 
1 thorn : 

j 




^ 


No more a youth was there. 
But a maiden rent her haire, 


THE OLD CONTINENTALS. 


And cried in sad despaire. 


In their ragged regimentals 


" That I was borne ! " 


Stood the old continentals, 


As I laye a-thynkynge, she perished forlorn. 


Yielding not. 




When the grenadiers were lunging, 


As I laye a thynkynge, a-thynkynge, a- 


And like hail fell the plunging 


thynkynge, 


Cannon-shot; 


Sweetly sang the Birde as she sat upon the 


When the files 


brier : 


Of the isles, 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



457 



From the smoky night encampment, bore 
the banner of the rampant 
Unicorn, 
And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled 
the roll of the drummer, 
Through the morn ! 

Then with eyes to the front all. 
And with guns horizontal, 

Stood our sires; 
And the balls whistled deadly, 
And in streams flashing redly 
Blazed the fires; 
As the roar 
On the shore. 
Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the 
green-sodded acres 
Of the plain; 
And louder, louder, louder, cracked the 
black gunpowder, 

Cracking amain ! 

Now like smiths at their forges 
Worked the red St. George's 

Cannoneers; 
And the " villainous saltpetre" 
Rung a fierce, discordant meter 
Round their ears ; 
As the swift 
Storm-drift, 
With hot sweeping anger, came the horse- 
guards' clangor 

On our tlanks; 
Then higher, higher, higher, burned the 
old-fashioned fire 

Through the ranks ! 

Then the old-fashioned colonel 
Galloped through the white infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And his broad sword was swinging, 
And his brazen throat was ringing 

Trumpet-loud. 

Then the blue 

Bullets flew. 
And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch 
of the leadem 



Rifle-breath; 
And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the 
iron six-pounder. 
Hurling death! 

Guy Humphrey McMaster. 



FUIMUS! 

Go to the once loved bowers ; 
Wreathe blushing roses for the lady's hair: 
Winter has been upon the leaves and 
flowers, — 

They were ! 

Look for the domes of kings ; 
Lo, the owl's fortress, or the tiger's lair! 
Oblivion sits beside them; mockery sings 
They were! 

Waken the minstrel's lute; 
Bid the smooth pleader charm the listening 
air: 
The chords are broken, and the lips are 
mute — 

They were! 

Visit the great and brave ; 
Worship the witcheries of the bright and 
fair. 
Is not thy foot upon a new-made grave? — 
They were! 

Speak to thine own heart; prove 
The secrets of thy nature. What is there? 
Wild hopes, warm fancies, fervent faith, 
fond love, — 

They were! 

We too, we too must fall ; 
A few brief years to labor and to bear; — 
Then comes the sexton, and the old trite 
tale, 

" We were ! " 

WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED. 



458 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



CHICAGO. 
Oct. 10, 1871. 

Blackened and bleeding, helpless, pant- 
ing, prone, 

On the charred fragments of her shattered 
throne 

Lies she who stood but yesterday alone. 

Queen of the West! by some enchanter 

taught 
To lift the glory of Aladdin's court, 
Then lose the spell that all that wonder 

wrought. 

Like her own prairies by some chance seed 

sown. 
Like her own prairies in one brief day grown, 
Like her own prairies in one fierce night 

mown. 

She lifts her voice, and in her pleading 

call 
We near the cry of Macedon to Paul, 
The cry for help that makes her kin to all. 

But haply with wan fingers may she feel 
The silver cup hid in the proffered meal, 
The gifts her kinship and our love reveal. 

Bret Harte. 



" LITTLE DAN!" 

I'm a boy 'bout as high as a table: 

My hair is the color of flax ; 
My name isn't Shakespeare or Milton, 

Or Byron, or Shelley, or Saxe. 
By an by it will be " Mr. Daniel "— 

They all call me now " Little Dan;" 
I'll tell you in rhyme what I fancy 

Will happen when I am a man. 

I'll have a big garden for peaches. 
And cherries and everything nice; 



With the cutest of fixings for rabbits, 

And pigeons, and dogs, and white mice. 

I'll have a big house, and a stable; 
And of horses the handsomest span 

That ever you feasted your e)es on, 
'Tis likely, when I am a man. 

A cane I ".vill twirl in my fingers, 

A watch-guard shall garnish my vest. 
No fear of expense shall deter me, 

My raiment shall be of the best. 
A ring on my finger shall glisten. 

And the cunningest, sleek black-and-tan 
Shall trot at my heels as I travel, 

I'm thinking, when I am a man! 

I'm a boy, so there's no use in talking; 

People snub me as much as they please; 
For the toes of my shoes are of copper. 

And my stockings come over my knees^ 
I've told you the whole of my story. 

As I promised to when I began ; 
I'm young, but I'm daily a growing — 

Look out for me when I'm a man. 

John S. Adams. 



OF A' THE AIRTS. 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly like the west; 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best. 
There wild woods grow, and rivers flow,, 

Wi' mony a hill between ; 
Baith day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers 

Sae lovely fresh and fair, 
I hear her voice in ilka bird 

Wi' music charm the ear; 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain shaw or green ; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Robert Burns. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



459 



THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA. 

To the wake of O'Hara 

Came companie; — 

All St. Patrick's Alley 

Was there to see, 

With the friends and kinsmen 

Of the family. 
On the old deal table Tim lay in white, 
And at his pillow the burning light; 
While pale as himself, with the tear on her 

cheek, 
The mother received us, — too full to speak. 
But slie heaped the fire, and with never a 

word 
She set the black bottle upon the board. 
While the company gathered, one and all. 
Men and women, big and small, — 
Not one in the alley but felt a call 
To the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

At the face of O'Hara, 

All white with sleep. 

Not one of the women 

But took a peep. 

And the wives new wedded 

Began to weep. 
The mothers clustered around about, 
And praised the linen and laying out. 
For white as snow was his winding-sheet, 
And all looked peaceful, and clean, and 

sweet. 
The old wives, praising the blessed dead. 
Clustered thick round the old press-bed. 
Where O'Hara's widow, tattered and torn. 
Held to her bosom the babe new-born, 
And stared all round her, with eyes forlorn. 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

For the heart of O'Hara 

Was true as gold. 

And the life of O'Hara 

Was bright and bold. 

And his smile was precious 

To young and old. 
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry, 
With a smiling mouth and a twinkling eye, 
Had ever an answer for chaft' or fun ; 



Would fight like a lion with any one. 
Not a neighbor of any trade 
But knew some joke that the boy had made ! 
Not a neighbor, dull or bright, 
But minded something, frolic or fight. 
And whispered it round the fire that night. 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

" To God be glory, in death and life! 
He's taken O'Hara from trouble and strife,'*" 
Said one-eyed Biddy, the apple-wife. 
" God bless old Ireland ! " said Mistress Hart,. 
Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart: 
" God bless old Ireland till all be done! 
She never made wake for a better son ! " 
And all joined chorus, and each one said 
Something kind of the boy that was dead. 
The bottle went round from lip to lip, 
And the weeping widow, for fellowship, 
Took the glass of old Biddy, and had a sip. 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

Then we drank to O'Hara with drams to 

the brim, 
While the face of O'Hara looked on so 

grim. 
In the corpse-light shining yellow and dim.. 
The drink went round again and again; 
The talk grew louder at every drain; 
Louder the tongues of the women grew; 
The tongues of the boys were loosing too!' 
But the widow her weary eyelids closed, 
And, soothed by the drop of the drink, 

she dozed ; 
The mother brightened, and laughed to 

hear 
Of O'Hara's fight with the grenadier. 
And the hearts of us all took better cheer 
At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 

Though the face of O'Hara looked on so 

wan, 
In the chimney-corner the row began; 
Lame Tony was in it, the oysterman. 
For a dirty low thief from the north came- 

near 
And whistled " Boyne Water " in his ear,. 



+ 



460 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And Tony, with never a word of grace, 


You see this yer Dow 




Hit out his fist in the blackguard's face. 


Hed the worst kind of luck; 




Then all the women screamed out for 


He slipped up somehow 




fright ; 


On each thing thet he struck. 




The men that were drunkest began to fight; 


Why, ef he'd ha' straddled that fence- 


rail. 


Over the chairs and tables they threw; 


the derned thing 'ed get up and b 


Lick. 


The corpse-light tumbled, the trouble grew ; 






The new-born joined in the hullabaloo. 


He mined on the bar 




At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 


Till he couldn't pay rates; 
He was smashed by a car 




"Be still! Be silent! 


When he tunnelled with Bates; 




Ye do a sin ! 


And right on the top of his trouble kem 


his 


Shame be his portion 


wife and five kids from the States. 


Who dares begin ! " 






'Twas Father O'Connor 


It was rough, — mighty rough; 




Just entered in ; 


But the boys they stood by. 




And all looked shamed, and the row was 


And they brought him the stuff 




done ; 


For a house on the sly ; 




Sorry and sheepish looked every one : 


And the old woman, — well, she did w 


ash- 


But the priest just smiled quite easy and 


ing, and took on when no one 


was 


free; 


nigh. 




"Would you wake the poor boy from his 






sleep? " said he. 


But this yer luck o' Dow's 




And he said a prayer with a shining face. 


Was so powerful mean 




Till a kind of a brightness filled the place; 


That the spring near his house 




The women lit up the dim corpse-light ; 


Dried right up on the green ; 




The men were quieter at the sight; 


And he sunk forty feet down for water. 


but 


And the peace of the Lord fell on all that 


nary a drop to be seen. 




night 






At the wake of Tim O'Hara. 


Then the bar petered out. 
And the boys wouldn't stay: 




Robert Buchanan. 


And the chills got about. 
And his wife fell away; 
But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in 






his 


DOW'S FLAT.— 1856. 


usual ridikilous way. 




Dow's Flat. That's its name, 


One day, — it was June, 




And I reckon that you 


And a year ago, jest — 




Are a stranger.? The same.'' 


This Dow came at noon 




Well, I thought it was true, 


To his work, like the rest, 




For thar isn't a man on the river as can't 


With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and 


spot the place at first view. 


a derringer hid in his breast. 




It was called after Dow, — 


He goes to the well, 




Which the same was an ass, — 


And he stands on the brink. 




And as to the how 


And stops for a spell 




That the thing came to pass, — 


Just to listen and think; 




Just tie up your horse to that buckeye, and 


For the sun in his eyes (jest like this. 


sir). 


sit ye down here in the grass: 


you see, kinder made the cuss b! 


ink. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



461 



His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play, 

And a gownd that was Sal's 
Kinder flapped on a bay ; 
Not much for a man to be leavin', but his 
all, — as I've heerd the folks say. 

And, — that's a pert hoss 

Thet you've got, ain't it now? 

What might be her cost? 

Eh? O !— Well, then, Dow,— 
Let's see, — well, that forty-foot grave 
wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 

Sorter caved in the side, 
And he looked and turned sick. 
Then he trembled and cried. 
For you see the dern cuss had struck — 

" Water V beg your parding, young 

man, there you lied. 

It was gold^ in the quartz. 

And it ran all alike; 
And I reckon five oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 
And that house with the coopilow's his'n — 

which the same isn't bad for a Pike. 

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; 

And the thing of it is 
That he kinder got that 

Through sheer contrariness; 
For 'twas -ivater the derned cuss was seekin', 

and his luck made him certain to 

miss. 

Thet's so. Thar's your way 

To the left of yon tree ; 
But — a — look h'yur, say! 

Won't you come up to tea? 
No? Well, then, the next time you're 

passin', and ask after Dow, — and 

thet's me. 

F. Prf.t Harte. 



THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST 
TEMPLES. 

The groves were God's first temples, ere 

man learned 
To hew the shaft and lay the architrave, 
And spread the roof above them, — ere He 

framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems, — in the darkling 

wood. 
Amid the cool and silence he knelt down 
And oftered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. Let me, then, at least, 
Here in the shadow of this aged wood, 
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in His ear. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



AN APRIL VIOLET. 

Under the larch, with its tassels wet, 
While the early sunbeams lingered yet, 
In the rosy dawn my love I met. 

Under the larch, when the sun was set, 
He came with an April violet: 
Forty years — and I have it yet. 

Out of life, with its fond regret. 
What have love and memory yet? 
Only an April violet. 

Anonymous. 



THE BETTER LAND. 

" I hear thee speak of the better land : 
Thou call'st its children a happy band; 
Mother! O where is that radiant shore? 
•Shall we not seek it, and weep no more? 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fire-flies dance through the mvr- 
tle-boughs?" 
" Not there — not there, my child 1" 

" Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise. 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies? 



463 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Or midst the green islands of glittering 

seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the bree2e' 
And strange bright birds on their starry 

wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" 
" Not there — not there, my child !" 

•' Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of 

gold?— 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral 

strand? 
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?" 
" Not there — not there, my child !" 

" Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy : 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair: 
Sorrow and death may not enter there; 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom : 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the 
tomb, 
— It is there — it is there, my child !" 

Mrs. Hemans. 



FALL OF WOLSEY. 

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my great- 
ness! 

This is the state of man : to-day he puts 
forth 

The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow 
blossoms. 

And bears his blushing honors thick upon 
him : 

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; 

And — when he thinks, good easy man, full 
surely 

His greatness is a ripening — nips his root. 

And then he falls, as I do. I have ven- 
tured. 

Like little wanton boys that swim on blad- 
ders, 



This many summers in a sea of glory; 
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown 

pride 
At length broke under me; and now has 

left me. 
Weary and old with service, to the mercy 
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide 

me. 
Vain pomp and glory of| this world, I hate 

ye: 
I feel my heart new opened. O how 

wretched 
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' 

favors ! 
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire 

to, 
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin. 
More pangs and fears than wars or women 

have : 
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, 
Never to hope again. 

Shakespeare. 



THE SANDS O' DEE. 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home. 
And call the cattle home, 
Across the sands o' Dee ! " 
The western wind was wild and dank wi'' 
foam. 
And all alone went she. 

The creeping tide came up long the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand. 
As far as eye could see ; 
The blinding mist came down and hid the- 
land: 
And never home came she. 

"O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 

A tress o' golden hair, 

O' drowned maiden's hair, — 

Above the nets at sea? 

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,, 

Among the stakes on Dee." 



OF P0ETR2- AND SONG. 



463 



I 



Thej rowed her in across the rolling foam, — 
The cruel, crawling foam, 
The cruel, hungry foam, — 
To her grave beside the sea; 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cat- 
tle home 
Across the sands o' Dee. 

Charles Kingsley. 



THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. 

I WILL go back to the great sweet mother. 

Mother and lover of men, the sea. 
I will go down fo her, I and none other. 
Close with her, kiss her, and mix her 
with me; 
Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast, 
O fair white mother, in days long past 
Born without sister, born without brother, 
Set free my soul as thy soul is free. 

fair green-girdled mother of mine. 
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the 

rain. 
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine. 

Thy large embraces are keen like pain ! 
Save me and hide me with all thy waves. 
Find me one grave of thy thousand graves. 
Those pure cold populous graves of thine, 
Wrought without hand in a world with- 
out stain. 

1 shall sleep and move with the moving 

ships, 
Change as the winds change, veer in the 
tide; 
My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, 
I shall rise with thy rising, with thee sub- 
side; 
Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were. 
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair. 
As a rose is fulfilled to the rose-leaf tips 
With splendid summer and perfume and 
pride. 



This woven raiment of nights and days. 

Were it once cast off and unwound from 

me. 

Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways, 

Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; 

Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, 

Clothed with the green, and crowned with 

the foam, 
A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, 
A vein in the heart of the streams of the 
sea. 

Charles Algernon Swinburne. 



WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. 

What might be done if men were wise — 
What glorious deeds, my suffering brother 

Would they unite 

In love and right. 
And cease their scorn of one another.'' 

Oppression's heart might be imbued 

With kindling drops of loving-kindness; 
And knowledge pour, 
From shore to shore. 
Light on the eyes of mental blindness. 

All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs. 
All vice and crime, might die together; 

And wine and corn. 

To each man born. 
Be free as warmth in summer weather. 

The meanest wretch that ever trod. 
The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, 

Might stand erect 

In self-respect. 
And share the teeming world to-morrow. 

What might be done.'' This might be done, 
And more than this, my suffering brother, 
More than the tongue 
E'er said or sung. 
If men were wise and loved each other. 

Charles Mackay. 



464 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



HEART OF CHRIST. 

Heart of Christ, O cup most golden 
Brimming with salvation's wine, 

Million souls have been beholden 
Unto thee for life divine; 

Thou art full of blood the purest, 

Love the tenderest and surest: 

Blood is life, and life is love; 

Oh, what wine is there like love? 

Heart of Christ, O cup most golden, 

Out of thee the martyrs drank, 
Who for truth in cities olden 

Spake, nor from the torture shrank ; 
Saved they were from traitor's meanness 
Filled with joys of holy keenness : 
Strong are those that drink of love; 
Oh, what wine is there like love? 

Heart of Christ, O cup most golden, 

To remotest place and time 
Thou for labours wilt embolden 

Unpresuming but sublime: 
Hearts are firm, though nerves be shaken, 
When from thee new life is taken : 
Truth recruits itself by love ; 
Oh, what wine is there like love? 

Thomas T. Lynch. 



AULD ROBIN FORBES. 

And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a 

dance, 
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance ; 
I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen, 
And skipped wi' the best upon Forbes's 

green. 
Of aw things that is I think thout is meast 

queer, 
It brings that that's bypast and sets it down 

here ; 
I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace, 
When he tuik his cvvoat lappet and deeght- 

ed his feace. 



The lasses aw wondered what Willy cud 

see 
In yen that was dark and hard-featured 

leyke me; 
And they wondered ay mair when they 

talked o' my wit. 
And slily tel't Willy that cudn't be it. 
But Willy he laughed, and he made me his 

weyfe. 
And whea was mair happy thro' aw his 

lang leyfe? 
It's e'en mj- great comfort, now Willy is 

geane. 
That he ofl:en said nea place was leyke his 

aun heame. 



I mind when I carried my wark to yon 
style. 

Where Willy was deyken, the time to be- 
guile. 

He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast. 

And I hammered my noddle to mek out a 
jest. 

But merry or grave Willy often wad tell 

There was nin o' the leave that was like my 
awn sel'; 

And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly 
a plack 

When we were married, and nobbet ae gown 
to my back. 

When the clock had struck eight, I expect- 
ed him heame, 

And wheyles went to meet him as far a& 
Dunleane; 

Of aw hours it tel't, eight was dearest to me. 

But now when it streykes there's a tear i' 
my ee. 

O Willy ! dear Willy ! it never can be 

That age, time, or death can divide thee and 
me! 

For that spot on earth that's aye dearest to 
me 

Is the turf that has covered my Willy from, 
me. 

Susanna Blamire. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



465 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL 
SWAMP. 

A BALLAD OF VIRGINIA. 

" They tell of a youngr min who lost his mind 
upon the death of a ifirl he loved, and who suddenly 
disappearing from his friends, was never afterward 
heard of. As he had frequently said in his raving-s, 
that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal 
Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that 
dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been 
lost in some of its dreadful morasses." — 

They made her a grave too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true ; 
And she's gone to the lake of the Dismal 

Swamp 
Where all night long by a firefly lamp 

She paddles her white canoe. 

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see 

And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
Long and loving our life shall be 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 
When the footstep of death is near! 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen where the serpent 
feeds 
And man never trod before ! 

And when on earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear and nightly steep. 

The flesh with blistering dew! 

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 

Till he starting cried from his dream awake 

"Oh! when shall I see the dusky lake 

And the white canoe of my dear.? " 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 
Quick over its surface played — 

" Welcome " he said " My dear one's light !" 
And the dim shore echoed for many a 
night 

The name of the death-cold maid! 



Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, 
Which carried him oft" from the shore; 

For he followed the meteor spark, 

The wind was high and the clouds were 
dark, 

And the boat returned no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp 
To cross the lake by a firefly lamp 

And paddle their white canoe. 

Thomas Moork.. 



HOHENLINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight. 
When the drum beat at dead of night. 
Commanding fires of death to Ught 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array 'd. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
And furious every charger neigh'd. 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; 
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow, 
On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun. 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopv. 

The combat deepens. On ye brave, 
Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all thy chivalry I 



466 ILL US TRA TED 


HOME BOOK 1 


Few, few shall part, where many meet! 


Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 


The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 


As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 


And every turf beneath their feet 




Shall be a soldier's s^ulchre ! 


Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame.' 




A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 


Thomas Campbell. 


A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust. 




That lifts a pinch of mortal dust: 

A few swift years and who can show 




BILL AND JOE. 


Which dust was Bill, and whicl? was Joe.' 


•Come, dear old comrade, 3'ou and I 


The weary idol takes his stand, 


Will steal an hour from days gone by, — 


Holds out his bruised and aching hand. 


The shining days when life was new, 


While gaping thousands come and go, — 


And all was bright as morning dew, — 


How vain it seems, this empty show ! 


The lusty days of long ago, 


Till all at once his pulses thrill, 


When you were Bill and I was Joe. 


'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you Bill!' 


Your name may flaunt a titled trail, 


And shall we breathe in happier spheres 


Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; 


The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 


And mine as brief appendix wear 


In some sweet lull of harp and song. 


As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare; 


For earth-born spirits none too long, — 


To-day, old friend, remember still 


Just whispering of the world below. 


That I am Joe and you are Bill. 


Where this was Bill, and that was Joe.' 


You've won the great world's envied prize. 


No matter; while our home is here 


And grand you look in people's eyes, 


No sounding name is half so dear; 


With H N. and L. L. D. 


When fades at length our lingering day. 


In big brave letters, fair to see, — 


Who cares what pompous tombstones say .' 


Your fist, old fellow! oft" they go! 


Read on the hearts that love us still. 


How are you. Bill.? How are you, Joe.' 


Hie jacet Joe. Hicjacet Bill. 


You've worn the judge's ermined robe; 


Oliver Wendell Homes. 


You've taught your name to half the globe ; 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain; 






You've made the dead past live again : 


SHE GIVES A SIDE GLANCE AND 


The world may call you what it will, 


LOOKS DOWN. 


But you and I are Joe and Bill. 






I KNOW a maiden fair to see ; 


The chaffing young folks stare and say, 


Take care ! 


" See those old buffers, bent and gray; 


She can both false and friendly be, 


They talk like fellows in their teens! 


Beware! Beware! 


Mad, poor old boys! That's what it 


Trust her not, 


means," — 


She is fooling thee ! 


And shake their heads they little know 




The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! 


She has two eyes, so soft and brown; 




Take care ! 


How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 


She gives a side glance and looks down, 


While Joe sits smiling at his side; 


Beware! Beware! 


How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 


Trust her not, 


Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — 


She is fooling thee ! 




SHE TAKES A SIDE GLANCE AXD LOOKS DOWN. 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 469 


And she has hair of a golden hue; 


And wouldn't it be nicer 


Take care ! 


Than waiting like a dunce. 


And what she says it is not true, 


To go to work in earnest 


Beware! Beware! 


And learn the thing at once? 


Trust her not, 




She is fooh'ng thee ! 


And suppose the world don't please you, 




Nor the way some people do. 


She has a bosom as white as snow; 


Do you think the whole creation 


Take care ! 


Will be altered just for you? 


She knows how nuich is best to show, 


And isn't it, my boy or girl, 


Beware! Beware! 


The bravest, wisest plan. 


Trust her not, 


Whatever comes or doesn't come. 


She is fooling thee ! 


To do the best you can? 


She gives thee a garland woven fair; 


Phcebe Cary. 


Take care ! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 






Beware! Beware! 
Trust her not, 


MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 


She is fooling thee. 


O THAT those lips had language! Life has 


Henry W. Longfellow. 


passed 
With me but roughly since I saw tliee 

last; 
Those lips are thine,— thy own sweet smile 






I see. 


SUPPOSE. 


The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 


Suppose, mj little lady, 


Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 


Your doll should break her head. 


" Grieve not, my child ; chase all thy fears 


Could you make it whole by crying 
Till eyes and nose are red.? 

And wouldn't it be pleasanter 
To treat it as a joke, 

And say you're glad 'twas dolly's 


away !" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, 
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it!) here shines on me still the 


And not your head that brrke.'' 


same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear! 


Suppos you're dressed for walking 


O welcome guest, though unexpected here! 


And the rain conies pouring down, 


Who bid'st me honor with an artless song, 


Will it clear off any sooner 


Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 


Because you scold and frown.? 


I will obey, — not willingly alone. 


And wouldn't it be nicer 


But gladly, as the precept were her own; 


For you to smile than pout, 


And, while that face renews my filial grief, 


And so make sunshine in the house 


Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — 


When there is none without? 


Shall steep me in Elj'sian reverie, 




A momentary dream that thou art she. 


Suppose your task, my little man, 


My mother! when I learned that thou 


Is very hard to get. 


wast dead. 


Will it make it any easier 


Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I 


For you to sit and fret? 


shed? 



470 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing 

son, — 
Wretch even then, Hfe's journey just begun? 
Perhaps tliou gavest me, though unfelt, a 

kiss; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; 
I saw the hearse that bore tliee slow away ; 
And, turning from my nursery window, 

drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 
But was it such ? — It was. — Where thou art 

gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
The parting word shall pass my lips no 

more. 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my 

concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived, — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and 

went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er 
forgot. 
Where once we dwelt our name is heard 
no more, 
Children not thine have trod my nursery 

floor; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by 

day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, — 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and 

wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, — 
^Tis now become a history little known 
Thr.t once we called the pastoral house our 

own. 
Short-lived possession! but the record fair 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness 

there 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 



A thousand other themes, less deeply 

traced : 
Thy nightly visits to my chainber made, 
That thou miglitst know me safe and warm • 

ly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my 

home, — 
The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 

glowed, — 
All this, and, more endearing still than all, 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew nt 

fall,— 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and 

breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page. 
And still to be so to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may, — 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, — 
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed 
here. 
Could time, his flight reversed, restore 
the hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 

flowers — 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine — 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the 

while — 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head 

and smile) — 
Could those few pleasant days again appear. 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish 

them here.'' 
I would not trust my heart, — the dear de- 
light 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no, — what here we call our life is such. 
So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's 
coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean 
crossed). 



OF P0ETR2' AND SONG. 



471- 



Shoots info port at some well-ha\ eiied isle, 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons 

smile; 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
While airs impregnated with incense plav 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gav, 
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached 

the shore 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows 

roar:" 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
Always from port withheld, always dis- 
tressed, — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest- 
tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and com- 
pass lost; 
And day by day some current's thwarting 

force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous 

course. 
Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and 

he!— 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the 

earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell! — Time, unrevoked, has 

run 
His wonted course; yet what I wished is 

done. 
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 

again,— 
To have renewed the joys that once were 

mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee. 
Time has but half succeeded in his thett, — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me 
left. 

William Cowpkr. 



AN INTERLUDE. 

Ix the greenest growth of the May-time, 
I rode where the woods were wet. 

Between the dawn and the dav-time 
The spring was glad that we met. 

There was something the season wanted. 
Though the ways and the woods smelt 
sweet ; 

The breath at your lips that parted, 
The pulse of the grass at your feet. 

You came, and the sun came after, 
And tl.ie green grew golden above 

And the flag-flowers lightened with laughter 
And the meadow-sweet shook with love. 

Your feet in the fullgrown grasses 
Moved soft as a weak wind blows; 

You passed me as April passes 
With face made out of a rose. 

By the stream where the stems were slen- 
der. 

Your bright foot paused at the sedge; 
It might be to watch the tender 

Light leaves in the springtime hedge. 

On boughs that the sweet month blanches, 

With flowery trost of May : 
It might be a bird in the branches, 

It might be a thorn in the way. 

I waited to watch you linger 

With foot drawn back from the dew, 

Till a sunbeam straight like a finger 

Struck sharp through the leaves at vou. 

And a bird overhead sang Follotv, 
And a birti to the right sang Here; 

And the arch of the leaves was hollow 
And the meaning of May was clear. 

I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 
I knew what the bird's note said; 

By the dawn and the dewfall anointed. 
You were queen by the gold on your 
head. 



47S 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



As the glimpse of a burnt out ember 

Recalls a regret of the sun, 
I remember, forget, and remember 

What Love saw done and undone. 

I remember the way we parted, 
The daj and the way we met; 

You hoped we were both broken-hearted 
And knew we should both forget. 

And May with her world in flower. 
Seemed still to murmur and smile 

As you murmured and smiled for an hour 
I saw vou turn at the stile. 

A hand like a white wood blossom, 
You lifted and waved, and passed. 

With head hung down to the bosom, 
And pale, as it seemed, at last. 

And the best and the -worst of this is 
That neither is most to blame 

If you've forgotten my kisses 
And I've forgotten your name. 

Algernon Swinburne. 



OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR- 
HOUSE. 

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm 

trudgin' my weary way — 
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle 

gray — 
I, who am smart an' chipi)cr, for all the 

years I've told, 
As many another woman, that's only half 

as old. 

• 

Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't 

make it quite clear ! 
Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems 

so horrid queer! 
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, 
But this is a sort of journey I never thought 

to go. 



What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's 

shame.'' 
Am I lazy or crazy.'' am I blind or lame.'' 
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful 

stout, 
But charity ain't no favor if one can live 

without. 

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, 
To work for a decent livin', an' pay my 

honest way ; 
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, 

I'll be bound. 
If any body is only willin' t® have me 

round. 

Once I was young and han'some — I was 

upon my soul — 
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as 

black as coal ; 
And I can't remember, in them days, of 

hearin' people say. 
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their 

way. 

'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over 

free. 
But many a house and home was open then 

to me; 
Many a han'some ofter I had from likely 

men. 
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden 

then. 

And when to John I was married, sure he 
was good and smart. 

But he and all the neighbors would own I 
done my part; 

For life was all befpre me, an' I was young 
an' strong. 

And I worked the best that I could in try- 
in' to get along. 

And so we worked together: and life was 

hard but gay. 
With now and then a baby for to cheer us 

on our way ; 




OF POETRT 


AND SONG. 47S 


Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed 


She had an edication, an' that was good for 


clean an' neat, 


her; 


An' went to school like others, an' had 


But when she twitted me on inine 'twas 


enough to eat. 


carry in' things too fur; 
An' I told her once 'fore company (an' it 


So we worked for the child'r'n, and raised 


almost made her sick). 


'em every one; 


That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et 


Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as 


a 'ritlimatic. 


we ought to have done ; 




Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some 
good folks condemn, 


So 'twas only a few days before the thing 
was done — 


But every couple's child'r'n's a heap the 
best to them. 


They was a family of themselves, and I 
another one; 


Strange how much we think of our blessed 


And a very little cottage for one family will 
do, 


little ores! — 
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have 


But I have never seen a house that was big 
enough for two. 


died for my sons; 




And God he made that rule of love; but 


An' I never could speak to suit her, never ', 


when we're old and gray, 
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to 


could please her eye, 
An' it made me independent, an' then I 


work the other way. 
Strange, another thing: when our boys an' 


didn't try ; 
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like 
a blow. 


girls was grown. 


When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told 


And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us 
there alone; 


me I could go. 


When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' 


I went to live with Susan, but Susan's 


dearer seemed to be. 


house was small. 


The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' 


And she was always a-hintin' how snug it 


took him away from me. 


was for us all ; 




And what with her husband's sisters, and 


Still I was bound to struggle, an' never 


what with childr'n three. 


to cringe or fall — 
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was 


'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't 
room for me. 


now my all; 
And Ciiarley was pretty good to me, with 


An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son 


scarce a word or frown, 


I've got, 


Till at last he went a courtin', and brought 


For Thomas' buildings'd cover the half of 


a wife from town. 


an acre lot; 
Hut all the childr'n was on me — I couldn't 


She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a 


stand their sauce — 


pleasant smile — 


And Thomas said I needn't think I was 


She was quite conceity, and carried a heap 

o' style; 
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with 


comin' there to boss. 
An' then I wrote to Rebecca, — my girl who 


her, I know, 


lives out West, 


But she was hard and proud, an' 1 couldn't 


And to Isaac, not far from her — some 


make it go. 

1 


twenty miles at best ; 



474 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, 

for any one so old, 
And t'other had an opinion the climate was 

too cold. 

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' 

shifted me about — 
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore 

my old heart out ; 
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' 

wasn't much put down, 
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' 

put me on the town. 

Over the hill to the poor-house — my 

childr'n dear, goodbye! 
Many a night I've watched you when only 

God was nigh ; 
And God'll judge between us; but I will 

al'ays pray 
That you shall never sufter the half I do 

to-day. 

Will M. Carleton. 



THE CATARACT OF LODORE 

DESCRIBED IX RHYMES FOR THE NURS- 
ERY. 

" How does the water 
Come down at Lodore.'" 
My little boy asked me 
Thus, once on a time; 
And moreover he tasked me 
To tell him in rhyme. 
Anon at the word. 
There first came one daughter. 
And then came another, 
To second and third 
The request of their brother, 
And to hear how the water 
Comes down at Lodore, 
With its rush and its roar, 

As many a time 
They had seen it before. 



So I told them in rhyme. 
For of rhymes I had store; 
And 'twas in mj' vocation 
For their recreation 

That so I should sing; 
Because I was Laureate 

To them and the King. 

From its sources whiAi well 
In the tarn on the fell ; 
From its fountains 
In the mountains, 
Its rills and its gills; 
Through moss and through brake. 
It runs and it creeps 
For a while till it sleeps 
In its own liitle lake. 
And thence at departing, 
Awakening and starting, 
It runs through the reeds, 
And away it proceeds, 
Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade, 
And through the wood-shelter, 
Among crags in its tiurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 
Here it comes sparkling. 
And there it lies darkling; 
Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in, 
Till, in this rapid race 
On which it is bent. 
It reaches the place 
Of its steep descent. 

The cataract strong 
Then plunges along, 
Striking and raging 
As if a war waging 
Its caverns and rocks among; 
Rising and leaping, 
.Sinking and creeping. 
Swelling and sweeping. 
Showering and springing. 
Flying and flinging. 
Writhing and wringing, 
Eddying and whisking. 
Spouting and frisking. 































OF POETRT 


AND SONG. 475 








Turning and twisting 


And clattering and battering and shatter- 








Around and around 


ing; 










With endless rebound : 












Smiting and fighting, 


Retreating and beating and meeting and 










A sight to delight m; 


sheeting, 










Confounding, astounding, 


Delaying and straying and playing and 








Dizzying and deafening the oar with its 


spraying. 






ll 


sound. , 


Advancing and prancing and glancing and 












dancing, 










Collecting, projecting. 


Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boil- 










Receding and speeding, 


ing, 










And shocking and rocking. 


And gleaming and streaming and steaming 










And darting and parting, 


and beaming. 










And threading and spreading, 


And rushing and flushing and brushing and 










And whizzing and hissing, 


gushing. 










And dripping and skipping, 


And flapping and rapping and clapping and 










And hitting and splitting, 


slapping. 










And shining and twining. 


And curling and whirling and purling ami 










And rattling and battling. 


twirling. 










And shaking and quaking, 


And thumping and plumping and bumping 










And pouring and roaring. 


and jumping, 










And waving and raving, 


And dashing and flashing and splashing and 










And tossing and crossing. 


clashing; 










And flowing and going, 


And so never ending, but always descend- 










And running and stunning, 


ing, 










And foaming and roaming. 


Sounds and motions for ever and ever are 










And dinning and spinning. 


blending 










And dropping and hopping. 


All at once and all o'er, with a mighty up- 










And working and jerking, 


roar, — 










And guggling and struggling, 


And this way the water comes down at 










And heaving and cleaving, 


Lodore. 










And moaning and groaning; 


Robert Southey. 










And glittering and frittering, 












And gathering and leathering. 


















And whitening and brightening. 












And quivering and shivering, 


THE ARMADA: 










And hurrying and skurrying. 












And thundering and floundering; 


A FRACiMENT. 










Dividing and gliding and siding. 


Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble 










And falling and brawling and sprawling, 


England's praise; 










And driving and riving and striving, 


I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought 










And sprinkling and twinkling and WTink- 


in ancient days. 






' 


ling. 


When that great fleet invincible against her 








And sounding and bounding and rounding, 


bore in vain 










And bubbling and troubling and doubling, 


The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest 










And grumblingand rumblingand tumbling. 


hearts of Spain. 





























47fi 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



It was about the lovely close of a vvanii 

summer day, 
Tliere came a gallant mercliant-ship full 

sail to Plymouth Bay; 
Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, 

beyond Aurigny's isle, 
At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heav- 
ing many a mile. 
At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's 

especial grace; 
And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held 

lier close in chase. 
Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed 

along the wall; 
The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edge- 

cumbe's lofty hall ; 
Many a light fishing-bark put out to prv 

along the coast, 
And with loose rein and bloodv spur rode 

inland manv a post. 
With his white hair unbonneted, the stout 

old sheriff comes ; 
Behinil him march the halberdiers; before 

him sound the drums ; 
His yeomen round the market cross make 

clear an ample space; 
For there behoves him to set up the stand 

ard of Her Grace. 
And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaylv 

dance the bells. 
As slow upon the laboring wind the roval 

blazon swells. 
Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his 

ancient crown. 
And underneath his deadly paw treads the 

gay lilies down. 
So stalked he when he turned to flight, on 

that famed Picard field, 
Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and 

Gesar's eagle shield. 
So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath 

he turned to bay, 
And crushed and torn beneath his claws 

the princely hunters lay. 
Ho! strike the flagstaff deep,*Sir Knight: 

Ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : 
Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: Ho! gal- 
lants, draw vour blades: 



Thou sun, shine on her joyously ; ve 

breezes, waft her wide ; 
Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of 

our pride. 
The freshening breeze of eve unfurled 

that banner's massy fold. 
The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that 

haughty scroll of gold ; 
Night sank upon the dusky beach and on 

the purple sea. 
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor 

ne'er again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from 

Lynn to Mil ford Bay, 
That time of slumber was as bright and 

busy as the day ; 
From swift to east and swift to west the 

ghastly war flame spread, 
High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it 

shone on Beachy Head. 
Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along 

each southern shire, 
Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those 

twinkling points of fire. 
The nsher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's 

glittering waves : 
The rugged miners poured to war from 

Mendip's sunless caves : 
O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's 

oaks, the fiery herald flew : 
He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge 

the rangers of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells all night 

rang out from Bristol town. 
And ere the day three hundred horse had 

met on Clifton down ; 
The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth 

into the night, 
And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the 

streak of blood-red light, 
Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the 

deathlike silence broke, 
And with one start, and with one cry, the 

royal city woke. 
At once on all her stately gates arose the 

answering fires; 
At once the wild alarum clashed from all 

her reeling spires ; 



OF POErnr and song. 



From all the batteries of the Tower pealed 

loud the voice of fear; 
And all the thousand masts of" Tlianies 

sent back a louder cheer: 
And from the furthest wards was heard the 

rush of hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of pikes and flags 

rushed down each roaring street; 
And broader still became the blaze, and 

louder still the din, 
As fast from every village round the horse 

came spurring in : 
And eastward straight from wild HIackheath 

the warlike errand went. 
And roused in many an ancient hall tiie 

gallant squires of Kent. 
Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew 

those bright couriers forth ; 
High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor 

they started for the north ; 
And on, and on, without a pause, imtired 

thev bounded still : 
All night from tower to tower they sprang; 

they sprang from hill to hill : 
Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er 

Darwin's rocky dales. 
Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven the 

stormy hills of Wales, 
Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on 

Malvern's lonely height. 
Till streamed in crimson on the wind the 

Wrekin's crest of li ;ht. 
Till bioad and fierce the star came tbrth on 

Ely's stately fane, 
And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all 

the boundless plain ; 
Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to 

Lincoln sent. 
And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the 

wide vale of Trent; 
Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on 



TO lANTHE, SLEEPING. 

FROM " QUEEN MAB." 

How wonderful is Death.! 

Death and his brother Sleep! 
One, pale as yonder waning moon, 

With lips of lurid blue; 

The other, rosy as the morn 
When throned on ocean's wave, 

It blushes o'er the world: 
Yet both so passing wonderful ! 

Hath then the gloomy Power 
Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres 
Seized on her sinless soul? 
Must then that peerless form 
Which love and admiration cannot view 
Without a beating heart, those azure 
veins 
Which steal like streams along a field of 
snow, 
That lovely outline which is fair 
As breathing marble, perish? 
Must putrefaction's breath 
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight 

But loathsomeness and ruin? 
Spare nothing but a glooni}- theme, 
On which the lightest heart might moral- 
ize? 
Or is it only a sweet slumber 
Stealing o'er sensation. 
Which the breath of roseate morning 
Chaseth into darkness? 
Will lanthe wake again, 
And give that faithful bosom joy. 
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 
Light, life, and rapture from her smile? 

Yes! she will wake again. 
Although her glowing limbs are motionless, 
And silent those sweet lips. 



Gaunt's embattled pile. 


Once breathing eloquence 


And the red glare on Skiddaw roused tin,' 


That might have soothed a tiger's rage. 


burghers of Carlisle. 


Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. 




Her dewy eves are closed. 


Lord Mac.mlav. 


And on their lids, whose texture fine 




Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, 




The baby Sleep is pillowed : 





478 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Her golden tresses shade 
The bosom's stainless pride, 
Curling like tendrils of the parasite 
Around a marble column. 



A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame: 
i Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; 

Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs re- 
mained. 
She looked around in wonder, and beheld 
Henry, who kneeled in silence by her 

couch, 
Watching her sleep with looks of speech- 
less love, 
And the bright-beaming stars 
That through the casement shone. 

Percy Bysshe Shelly. 



^HE NIGHT BEFORE THE BATTLE 
OF WATERLOO. 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone over fair women and 

brave men: 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptious swell. 
Soft eyes looked love to those which 

spake again 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like 

a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear W.} — No, 'twas but the 

wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined: 
No sleep till morn when youth and pleas- 
ure meet. 
To chase the glowing hours with flying 

feet. 
But hark that heavy sound breaks in once 

more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 



Arm ! arm ! it is — it is the cannon's opening 
roar I 

Within a windowed niche of that high 

hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did 

hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone \vith deaths prophetic 

ear ; 
And when they smiled because he 

deemed it near. 
His heart more truly knew that peal too 

well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody 

bier 
And roused the vengeance blood alone 

could quell : 
He rushed into the field, and foremost 

fighting, fell. 

Ah! then and there was hiu-rying to 
and fro, 

And gathering tears and trembling of 
distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour 
ago. 

Blushed at the praise of their own loveli- 
ness; 

And these were sudden partings, such as 
press 

The life from out young hearts, and chok- 
ing sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated ; who 
could guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual 
eyes 
Since upon night so sweet such awful 
morn could rise.' 

And there was mounting in hot haste: 
the steed, 

The mustering squadron and the clatter- 
ing car. 

Went pouring forward with impetuous 
speed 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;, 

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 




And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning 

star; 
While thronged the citizens with terror 

dumb 
Or whispered with white lips, " The foe! 

Thej come ! They come ! " 

Lord Byron. 



THE TELLTALE. 

Once, on a golden afternoon, 
"With radiant faces and hearts in tune, 
']\vo fond lovers in dreaming mood 
Threaded a rural solitude. 
Wholly happy, they only knew 
That the earth was bright and the sk was 
blue, 
That light and beautv and joy and song 
Charmed the way as they passed along : 
The air was fragrant with woodland scents; 
The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence; 
And hovering near them, " Chee, chee, 

chink?" 
Queried the curious bobolink ; 
Pausing and peering with sidelong head. 
As saucily questioning all they said; 

While the ox-eye danced on its slender 

stem, 
And all glad nature rejoiced with them. 
0\er the odorous fields were strown 
^\'ilting windrows of grass new-mown. 
And rosy billows of clover bloom 
Surged in the sunshine and breathed 
perfume. 
Swinging low on a slender limb, 
Tlie sparrow warbled his wedding hymn, 
And, balancing on a blackberry-brier. 
The bcjbolink sung with his heart on 
fire, — 
" Chink.? If you wish to kiss her, do! 
Do it, do it! You coward, you! 

Kiss her! Kiss, kiss her! Who will 

see ? 
Onlv we three! we three! we three!" 



Under garlands of drooping vines. 
Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed 
^^ines, 
Past wide meadow-fields, lately mowed, 
Wandered the indolent country road. 
The lovers followed it, listening still, 
And loitering slowly, as lovers will. 

Entered a low-roofed bridge that lay, 
Dusky and cool, in their pleasant way. 
Under its arch a smooth, brown stream 
Silently glided, with glint and gleam, 
Shaded by graceful elms that spread 
Their verdurous canopy overhead, — 
The stream so narrow, the boughs so wide, 
They met and mingled across the tide. 
Alders loved it, and seemed to keep 
Patient watch as it lay asleep, 
Mirroring clearly the trees and sky 
And the flitting form of the dragon-fly. 

Save where the-swift-winged swallow 

played 
In and out in the sun and shade, 
And darting and circling in merry chase, 
Dipped, and dimpled its clear dark face. 

Fluttering lightly from brink to brink. 
Followed the garrulous bobolink. 

Rallying loudly, with mirthful din. 
The pair who lingered unseen within. 
And when from the friendly bridge at last 
Into the road beyond they passed, 

7\gain beside them the tempter went, 
Keeping the thread of his argument — 
"Kiss her! kiss her! chink-a-chee-chee! 
I'll not mention it! Don't mind me! 
I'll be sentinel — I can see 
All around from this tall birch-tree !" 
But ah! they noted — nor deemed it strange, 
In his rollicking chorus a trifling change : 
" Do it! do it!" with might and main 
Warbled the telltale — "Do \i again!" 

Anonymous. 



HIAWATHA'S DEPARTURE. 

By the shore of Gitchee Gumee, 
By the shining big-sea-water. 



480 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


At the doorway of his wigwam, 


O'er the water floating, flying, 


In the pleasant summer morning, 


Through the shining mist of morning, 


Hiawatha stood and waited. 


But a birch-canoe with paddles. 


All the air was full of freshness, 


Rising, sinking on the water, 


All the earth was bright and joyous, 


Dripping, flashing in the sunshine : 


All before him through the sunshine, 


And within it came a people 


Westward toward the neighboring forest, 


From the distant land of Wabun, 


Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, 


From the farthest realms of morning 


Passed the bees, the honey-makers. 


Came the Black robe Chief the Prophet, 


Burning, singing, in the sunshine. 


He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale face. 


Bright above him shone the heavens, 


With his guides and his companions 


Level spread the lake before him. 


And the noble Hiawatha, 


From its bosom leaped the sturgeon. 


With his hands aloft extended, 


Sparkling, flashing, in the sunshine; 


Held aloft in sign of welcome. 


On its margin the great forest. 


Waited full of exultation 


Stood reflected in the water. 


Till the birch-canoe with paddles 


Every tree- top had its shadow. 


Grated on the shining pebbles, 


Motionless beneath the water. 


Stranded on the sandy margin, 


From the brow of Hiawatha, 


Till the Black-robe chief, the Pale-face, 


Gone was every trace of sorrow. 


With the cross upon his bosom, 


As the fog from off the water, 


Landed on the sandy margin. 


As the mist from off the meadow, 


Then the joyous Hiawatha 


With a smile of joy and triumph. 


Cried and spake aloud in this wise: 


With a look of exultation 


" Beautiful is the sun, O Strangers, 


As of one who in a vision 


When you come so far to see us! 


Sees what is to be, but is not. 


All our town in peace awaits you, 


Stood and waited Hiawatha. 


All our doors stand open for you ; 


Towards the sun his hands were lifted, 


You shall enter all our wigwams, 


Both the palms spread out against it 


For the heart's right hand we give you. 


And between the parted fingers 


" Never bloomed the earth so gayly. 


Fell the sunshine on his features, 


Never shone the sun so brightly. 


Flecked with light his naked shoulders 


As to-day they shine and blossom 


As it falls and flecks an oak-tree 


When you come so far to see us ! 


Through the rifted leaves and branches. 


Never was our lake so tranquil. 


O'er the water floating, flying, 


Nor so free from rocks and sand-bars; 


Something in the hazy distance. 


For your birch-canoe in passing • 


Something in the mists of morning. 


Has removed both rock and sand-bar. 


I^oomed and lifted from the water, 


" Never before had our tobacco 


Now seemed floating, now seemed flying. 


Such a sweet and pleasant flavor. 


Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. 


Never the broad leaves of. our cornfields 


Was it Shingebis the diver.? 


Were so beautiful to look on. 


Or the pelican the shade.? 


As they seem to us this morning, 


Or the heron the Shuh-shuh-gah.'' 


When you come so far to see us!" 


Or the white goose, Wa-be-wawa, 


And the Black-robe chief made answer, 


With the water dripping, flashing 


Stammered in his speech a little. 


From its glossy neck and feathers.? 


Speaking words yet unfamiliar: 


It was neither goose nor diver. 


" Peace be with you, Hiawatha, 


Neither pelican nor heron. 


Peace be with you and your people, 



OF POETRY 


AND SONG. 481 


Peace of prayer and peace of pardon. 


Then they rose up and departed 


Peace of Christ and joj of Mar_y !" 


Each one homeward to his wigwam, 


Then the generous Hiawatha 


To the young men and the women 


Led the strangers to his wigwam, 


Told the story of the strangers 


Seated them on skins of bison, 


Whom the Master of Life had sent them 


Seated tl'iem on skins of ermine, 


From the shining land of Wabun. 


And the careful old Nokomis 


Heavy with the heat and silence 


Brought them food in bowls of bass-wood, 


Grew the afternoon of Summer; 


Water brought in birchen dippers. 


With the drowsy sound the forest 


And the calumet the peace-pipe 


Whispered round the sultry wigwam, 


Filled and lighted for their smoking. 


With, a sound of sleep the water 


All the old men of the village, 


Rippled on the beach below it. 


All the warriors of the nation, 


From the cornfields shrill and ceaseless 


All the Jossakeeds, the prophets, 


Sang the grasshopper, Pah-puk-keena; j 


The magicians, the Wabenos, 


And the guests of Hiawatha 


And the medicine-men, the medas. 


Weary with the heat of Summer, 


Came to bid the strangers welcome: 


Slumbered in the sultry wigwam. 


" It is well," they said, " O brother 


Slowly o'er the simmering landscape 


That you come so far to see us ! " 


Fell the evening's dusk and coolness. 


In a circle round the doorway, 


And the long and level sunbeams 


With their pipes they sat in silence, 


Shot their spears into the forest. 


Waiting to behold the strangers. 


Breaking through its shields of shadovr. 


Waiting to receive their message; 


Rushed into each secret ambush, 


Till the Black-robe chief, the Pale-face 


Searched each thicket, dingle, hollow; 


From the wigwam came to greet them, 


Still the guests of Hiawatha 


Stammering in his speech a little. 


Slumbered in the silent wigwam. 


Speaking words yet unfamiliar; 


From his place I'ose Hiawatha, 


" It is well," they said, " O Brother, 


Bade farewell to old Nokomis, 


That you came so far to see us." 


Spake in whispers, spake in this wise. 


Then the Black-robe chief the prophet 


Did not wake the guests that slumbered: 


Told his message to the people. 


" I am going, O Nokomis, 


Told the purport of his mission, 


On a long and distant journey. 


Told them of the Virgin Mary, 


To the portals of the sunset. 


; And her blessed son the Savior, 


To the region of the home wind, 


: How in distant lands and ages, 


Of the Northwest wind, Keewaydin. 


He had lived on earth as we do; 


But these guests I leave behind me. 


How he fasted, prayed and labored ; 


In your watch aud ward I leave them; 


How the Jews, the tribe accursed, 


See that never harm comes near them. 


Mocked him, scourged hint, crucified him ; 


See that never fear molests them, i 


How he rose from where tKcy laid him 


Never danger nor suspicion, 


Walked again with his discioles, • 


Never want of food or shelter 


\ And ascended into heaven. 


In the lodge of Hiawatha!" 


And the chiefs made answer saying: 


Forth into the village went he. 


" We have listened to your message. 


Bade farewell to all the warriors. 


We have heard your words of wisdom. 


Bade farewell to all the young men. 


We will think on what you tell us. 


Spake persuading, spake in this wise: 


It is well for us, O brothers, 


" I am going, O my people. 


That you come so far to see us ! " 


On a long and distant journey, 



483 • 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Many moons and many winters 
Will have come and will have vanished 
Ere I come again to see you. 
I>ut my guests I leave behind me; 
Listen to their words of wisdom, 
Listen to the truth they tell you, 
For the Master of Life has sent them 
From the land of light and morning!" 

On the shore stood Hiawatha, 
Turned and waved his hand at parting, 
On the clear and luminous water 
Launched his birch-canoe for sailing, 
From the pebbles of the margin 
Shoved it forth into the water; 
Whispered to it, " Westward! Westward!" 
And with speed it darted forward. 

And the evening sun decending 
Set the clouds on fire with redness, 
Burned the broad sky like a prairie 
Left upon the level water 
One long track and trail of splendor, 
Down whose stream, as down a river, 
Westward, westward Hiawatha 
Sailed into the fiery sunset. 
Sailed into the purple vapors, 
Sailed into the dusk of evening, 
And the people from the margin 
Watched him floating, rising, sinking. 
Till the birch-canoe seemed lifted 
High into that sea of splendor 
Till it sank into the vapors 
Like the new moon, slowly, slowly 

Sinking in the purple distance. 

And they said, "Farewell forever! " 
Said, "Farewell, O Hiawatha! " 
And the forests, dark and lonely. 
Moved through all their depths of darkness 
Sighed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" 
And the waves upon the margin 
Rising, rippling on the pebbles. 
Sobbed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!', 
And the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah 
From her haunts among the fen-lands. 
Screamed, "Farewell, O Hiawatha!" 

Thus departed Hiawatha, 
Hiawatha the Beloved, 
In the glory of the simset. 
In the purple mists of evening 



To the regions of the home-wind, 
Of the northwest wind Keewaydin, 
To the Islands of the Blessed, 
To the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
To the land of the Hereafter! 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



"THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH 
US." 

The world is too much with us; late and 

soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our 

powers ; 
Little we see in nature th.at is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid 

boon! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping 

flowers ; 
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less 

forlorn : 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea. 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 



JIM BLUDSO 

OF THE I'RAIRIE BELLE. 

Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, 

Because he don't live, you see; 
Leastways, he's got out of the habit 

Of livin' like you and me. 
Whar have you been for the last three years. 

That you haven't heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks. 

The nisfht of the Prairie Belle? 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



483 



He weren't no saint, — them engineers 

Is all pretty much alike, — 
One wife in Natchez-under-the-hill 

And another one here, in Pike; 
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 

And an awkward iiand in a row, 
But he never flunked, and he never lied, — 

I reckon he never knowed how. 

And this was all the religion he had, — 

To treat his engine well; 
Never be passed on the river 

To mind the pilot's bell ; 
And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, — 

A thousand times he swore, 
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last soul got ashore. 

All boats has their day on the Mississip, 

And her day come at last, — 
The Movastar was a better boat. 

But the Belle she zvouldii't be passed; 
And so she came tearin' along that night — 

The oldest craft on the line — 
With a nigger squat on her safety-valve 

And her furnace crammed, rosin and 
pine. 

The fire bust out as she clar'd the bar, 

And burnt a hole in the night, 
And quick as a fiash she turned, and made 

For that wilier-bank on the right. 
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim 
yelled out 

Over all the infernal roar, 
" I'll hold her nozzle agin' the bank 

Till the last galoot's ashore." 

Through the hot black breath of the burnin' 
boat 

Jim Bludso's voice was heard. 
And they all had trust in his cussedness. 

And knowed he would keep his word. 
And, sure's you're born, they all got off 

Afore the smokestacks fell, 
And Bludso's ghost went up alone 

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle 



He weren't no saint, but at jedgment 

I'd run my chance with Jim, 
'Long side of some pious gentlemen 

That wouldn't shake hands with him. 
He seen his duty, a dead sure thing, — 

And went for it thar and then ; 
And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard 

On a man that died for men. 

J(MiN Hay. 



" GRACIOUS SPIRIT DWELL WITH 

ME." 

Graciou-S Spirit, dwell with me, — 
I myself would gracious be. 
And with words that help and heal 
Would thy life in mine reveal ; 
And with actions bold and meek 
Would tor Christ my Saviour speak. 

Truthful Spirit, dwell with me, — 
I myself would truthful be; 
And with wisdom kind and clear 
Let thy life in mine appear; 
And with actions brotherly 
Speak my Lord's sincerity 

Tender Spirit, dwell with me, — 
I myself would tender be; 
Shut my heart up like a flower, 
At temptation's darksome hour; 
Open it when shines the sun. 
And his love by fragrance own. 

Silent Spirit, dwell with me, — 

I myself would quiet be. 

Quiet as the growing blade 

Which through earth its way has made; 

Silently, like morning light. 

Putting mists and chills to flight. 

Mighty Spirit, dwell with me, — 
I myself would mighty be, 
Mighty so as to prevail 
Where unaided man must fail; 
Ever by a mighty hope 
Pressing on and bearing up. 



484 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Holy Spirit, dwell with me, — 

I myself would holy be; 

Separate from sin, I would 

Choose and cherish all things good ; 

And whatever I can be 

Give to Him who gave me Thee. 

Thomas T. Lynch. 



THE DEATH OF MARMION. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; 
Though there the western inountaineer 
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. 
And flung the targe aside. 
And with both hands the broadsword plied : 
Twas vain : — For Forture on the right. 
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle yell. 
The border slogan rent the sky ! 
" A Home ! " " a Gordon ! " was the cry : 
Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now 

high. 
The pennon sunk and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. 

It wavered mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear; 

" By Heaven and all its saints I swear, 

I will not see it lost ! 
Fitz Eustace, you with Lady Clare 
May bid your beads and patter prayer, — 

I gallop to the host." 
And to the fray he rode amain, 
FoUow'dby all the archer train. 
The fierj' youth with desperate charge. 
Made, for a space, an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around, 
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 

It sunk among the foes. 



Then Eustace mounted too: — Yet staid, 
As loath to leave the helpless maid, 

When, fast as shaft can fly, 
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
The loose rein dangling from his head. 
Housing and saddle bloody red, 

Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by ; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast, 
To mark he would return in haste, 
Then plunged into the fight. 

Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own, 
Braces her mind to desperate tone — 
The scattered van of England wheels; — 
She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there? " — 
They fly, or madden'd by despair, 
Fight but to die, — " Is Wilton there? " — 
With that, straight up the hill there rode 
Two horsemen drenched with gore, 
And in their arms a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strained the broken brand; 
His arms were smeared \vith blood and 

sand : 
Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
The falcon, crest and plumage gone, 
Can this be haughty Marmion i * * * 
Young Blount his armour did unlace. 
And gazing on his ghastly face, 
Said — " By Saint George, he's gone! 
That spear-wound has our master sped, 
And see the deep cut on his head ! 

Good night to Marmion. — " 
"Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease; 
He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!" 

When, doflF'd his casque, he felt free air, 
Around, gane Marmion wildly stare: — 
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz Eustace 

where? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 



OF POEriiV AND SONG. 



485 



Last of my race on battle plain 

That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 

Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 

To Dacre bear my signet ring : 

Tell him his squadrons up to bring, — 

Fitz Eustace, to Lord Surry high; 

Tunstall lies dead upon the field : 

His life blood stains the spotless shield: 

Edmund is down: — \r\y life is reft; 

The Admiral alone is left. 

Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 

With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 

Full upon Scotland's central host 

Or victory and England's lost, — 

Must I bid twice? — hence, varlets! fly. 

Leave Marmion here alone — to die!' 

They parted, and alone he lay ; 

Clare drew her from the sight awav. 

Till pain rung forth a lowly moan, 

And half he murmured, — "Is there none, 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 

Of blessed water from the spring. 
To slake my dying thirst!" 

O woman in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please. 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made; 
When pain and anguisli wring the brow, 
A misistering angel thou ! — 

Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears — 

The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
Sees but the dying man. 
She stooped her by the runnel's side. 
But in abhorrence backward drew; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side. 
Where waged the war, a dark red tide 
Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn? — behold lier mark 

A little fountain cell. 
Where water, clear as diamond spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half- worn letters say, 



Drink: weary: pilgrim: drink: and: 

pray: 
For: the: kind: soul: of: Sybil: Gray: 
Who: built: this: cross: and: well 

She filled the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied, 
A monk supporting Marmion's head — 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fraught. 
To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the w^ave. 
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave, — 
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
" Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 
" Speak not to me of shrift or prayer! 

I must redress her woes. 
Short space, few words, are mine to spare; 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare!" — 
" Alas!" she said; "the w-hile, — 

Oh! think of your immortal weal! 

In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 
She — died at Holy Isle." — 
Lord Marmion started from the ground 
As light as if he felt no wound ; 

Though in the action burst the tide. 

In torrents, from his wounded side. 
" Then it was truth," he said, — " I knew 
That the dark presage must be true — 
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs 

Would spare me but a day ! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
And priests slain on the altar stone, 

Might bribe him to delay. 
It may not be! — this dizzy trance — 
Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
And doubly cursed my failing brand, 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand, 
Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. 
Supported by the trembling monk. 

With fruitless labor, Clara bound, 
And strove to staunch the gushing wound ; 
The monk, with unavailing cares, 
Exhausted all the Church's prayers; 
Ever, he said, that, close and near, 



486 //' LUSTRA TED 


HOME BOOK 


A lady's voice was in his ear, 


With thy bells of Shandon, 


And that the priest he could not hear, 


That sound so grand on 


For that she ever sung : 


The pleasant waters 


" In the lost battle, borne down by the flying, 


Of the river Lee. 


Where mingles war^s rattle xvith the groans 




of the dying: 


I've heard bells chiming 


So the notes rung ; — 


Full many a clime in, 


" Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand, 


Toiling sublime in 


Shake not the dying sinner's sand! 


Cathedial shrine. 


O look, my son, upon yon sign 


White at a glib rate 


Of the Redeemer's grace divine; 


Brass tongues would vibrate ; 


O think on faith and bliss! — 


But all their music 


Bj' many a death-bed I have been, 


Spoke naught like thine. 


And many a sinner's parting seen. 
But never aught like this." — 
The war, that ibr a space did fail, 
Now, trebly thundering, swell'd the gale. 

And — Stanley ! — was the cry ; — 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye : 
With dying hand, above his head, 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 


For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry, knelling 

Its bold notes free. 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 


And shouted "Victory! — 
"Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, 
^^ t" 


I've heard the bells tolling 
Old Adrian's Mole in. 


on ! 
Were the last words of Marmion. 


Their thunder rolling 
From the Vatican, — 


Sir Walter Scott. 


And cyinbals glorious 




Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 




THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 


Of Notre Dame; 


Sabbata pango; 
Funera plango; 


But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the Dome of Peter 


Solemnia clana^o. 


Flings o'er the Tiber, 


Inscription on an Old Bell. 


Pealing solemnly. 


With deep aftection 


O, the bells of Shandon 


And recollection 
I often think of 
Those Shandon bells. 


Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 


Whose sounds so wild would 
In the days of childhood. 
Fling round my cradle 
Their magic spells. 


There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While in tower and kiosk O 
In St. Sophia 

The Turkman gets. 


On this I ponder 


And loud in air 


Where'er I wander, 


Calls men to prayer. 


And thus grow fonder, 


From the tapering summit 


Sweet Cork, of thee, — 


Of tall minarets. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



487 



Such empty phantom 
I freely grant 'em ; 
But there's an anthem 

More dear to me, — 
'Tis the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

Francis Mahony (Father Prout.) 



MILTON ON HIS BLINDNESS. 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my davs, in this dark world and 

wide, 
And that one talent which is death to 

hide, 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul 

more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest He returning chide; 

Doth God exact day-labour, lit^ht denied, 

I fondly ask but patience to prevent 

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not 

need 
Either man's work or His own gifts; who 

best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him 

best: His state 
Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
And post o'er land and ocean without 

rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait. 

John Milton. 



WILLY'S GRAVE. 

The frosty wind was wailing wiic across 

the wintry wold ; 
The cloudless vault of heaven was bright 

with studs of gleaming gold ; 
The weary cotter's heavy lids had closed 

with closing day. 



And on his silent hearth a tinge of dying 
fire-light lay. 

The ancient hamlet seemed asleep beneath 
the starry sky ; 

A little river, sheathed in ice, came gliding 
gently by ; 

The grey church, in the graveyard, where 
the " rude forefathers lay," 

Stood, like a mother, waiting till her chil- 
dren came from play. 

No footstep trod the tiny town; the drowsy 

street was still. 
Save where the wandering night-wind sang 

its requiem wild and shrill. 
The stainless snow lay thick upon those 

quaint old cottage eaves. 
And wreaths of fairy frost-work hung 

where grew last summer's leaves. 

Each village home was dark and still, and 

closed was every door; 
For gentle sleep had twined her arms 

around both rich and poor, — 
Save in one little cot, where, by a candle's 

flickering ray, 
A childless mother sighing sat, and combed 

her locks of gray. 

Her husband and her children all were in 

the last cold bed, 
Where, one by one, she'd laid them down 

and left them with the dead ; 
Then toiling on towards her rest — a lonely 

pilgrim, she — 
For God and poverty were now her only 

company. 

Upon the shady window-sill a well-worn 

Bible lay ; 
Against the wall a coat had hung for many 

a weary day : 
And on the scanty table-top, with crumbs 

of supper strewn, 
There stood, beside a porringer, two littlg 

empty shoon. 



488 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



The fire was waning in tlie grate; the spin- 
ning-wheel at rest ; 

The cricket's song rang loudly in that lonely 
woman's nest. 

As, with her napkin thin and worn, and 
wet with many a tear, 

She wiped the little pair of shoon her dar- 
ling used to wear. 

Her widowed heart had often leaped to 
hear his prattle small : 

He was the last that she had left — the dear- 
est of them all ; 

And as she rocked her to and fro, while 
tears came dropping down, 

She siglied and cried, "Oh, Willy, 1o\l! 
these little empty shoon ! " 

With gentle hand she laid them by, she 

laid them by with care, 
For Willy he was in his grave, and all her 

thoughts were there; 
She paused before she dropped the sneck 

that closed her lambless fold, 
It grieved her heart to bar the door and 

leave him in the cold. 

A threadbare cloak she wrapped around 

her limbs so thin and chill, 
She left her lonely cot behind whilst all 

the world was still ; 
And through the solitary night she took 

her silent way. 
With weeping eves, towards the spot where 

little Willy lay. 

The pale, cold moon had climbed aloft into 
the welkin blue, 

A snow-clad tree across the grave its leaf- 
less shadow threw ; 

And as that mournful mother sat, upon a 
mound there by. 

The bitter wind of winter sighed to hear 
her waiUng crv ! 

" My little Willy's cowd and still ! He's not 

a cheep for ine ; 
Th' last leaf has dropt, the last tiny leaf, 

that cheered this withered tree. 



Oh, my poor heart! my comfort's gone; 

aw'm lonely under th' sky ! 
He'll never clip my neck again, an' tell me 

not to cry ! 

" Nipt, — nipt i'th' bud, an' laid i'th' dust, 

my little Willy's dead. 
And a' that made me cling to life lies in 

his frosty bed. — 
He's gone! He's gone! My poor bare neest! 

What's a' this world to me.' 
My darlin' lad! aw'm lonely neaw! when 

mun aw come to thee.'' 

" He's crept into his last dark nook, an' left 

me pinin' here; 
An' never more his two blue e'en for me 

mun twinkle clear. 
He'll ne\er lisp his prayers again at his 

poor mammy's knee; 
Oh, Willy! oh, aw'm lonely neaw, when 

mun aw come to thee.'" 

The snow-clad yew-tree stirred with pain, 

to hear that plaintive cry; 
The old church listened, and the spire kept 

pointing to the sky ; 
With kindlier touch the bitter wind played 

in her locks of gray, 
.\nd the queenly moon upon her head 

shone with a softened ray. 

She rose to leave that lonely bed — her 

heart was gricA-ing sore, — 
One step she took, and then her tears fell 

faster than before; 
She turned and gave another look, — one 

lingering look she gave, — 
Then, sighing left him lying in his little 

wintry grave. 

Edwin Waugh. 



TO A DAISY. 

There is a flower, a little flower. 
With silver crest and golden eye, 
That welcomes every changing hour, 
And weathers every skv. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



489 



The prouder beauties of the field, 
In gay but quick succession sliine; 
Race after race their honors yield, 
They flourish and decline. 

But this small tiower, to Nature dear, 
While moons and stars their courses run, 
Enwreathes the circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 
To sultrv August spreads its charm. 
Lights pale October on his way. 
And twines December's arm. 

The purple heath and golden broom, 
On moory mountains catch the gale; 
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
The \iolet in the vale. 

But this bold floweret climbs the hill. 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
Plavs on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps round the fox's den. 

Within the garden's cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation's bed; 
And blooms on consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; 
The wild bee murmurs on its breast; 
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o'er the skylark's nest. 

'Tis Flora's page — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair; 
It opens with perennial |;race 
And blossoms everywhere. 

On waste and woodlandj'rock and plain. 
Its humble buds unheeded rise; 
The rose has but a summer reign ; 
The Daisy never dies ! 

James Montgomery. 



MOTHER SHALL THREAD 
A DAISY CHAIN. 



THEM 



Heigh-iio! daises and buttercups, 

Fair yellow daftodills, stately and tall! 
When the wind wakes how they rock in 
the grasses, 
And dance with the cuckoobuds slender 
and small : 
Here's two bonny bovs, and here's mother's 
own lasses^ 
Eager to gather them all. 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! 

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; 
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-spar- 
row, 
That loved her brown little ones, loved 
them full fain , 
Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the 
house be but narrow," — 
Sing once, and sing it again. 

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, 

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and 
they bow^; 
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, 
And haply one musing doth stand at her 
prow. 
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little 
daughters. 
Maybe he thinks on you now! 

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups. 

Fair yellow daftbdils, stately and tall — 
A sunshiny woi Id full of laughter and 
leisure, 
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow 
and thrall ! 
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing 
its measure, 
God that is over us all! 

Jean Ingelow. 



490 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THERE IS NO DEATH. 

There is no death! The stars go down 
To rise upon some fairer shore ; 

And bright in heaven's jewelled crown 
They shine forevermore. 

There is no deatli ! The dust we tread 
Shall change beneath the summer show- 
ers 

To golden grain or mellowed fruit, 
Or rainbow-tinted flowers. ■ 

The granite rocks disorganize, 

And feed the hungry moss they bear; 

The forest leaves drink daily Wiz^ 
From out the viewless air. 

There is no death! The leaves may fall, 
And flowers may fade and pass away ; 

They only wait through wintry hours, 
The coming of the May. 

There is no death I An angel form 
Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; 

He bears our best loved things away ; 
And then we call them "dead." 

He leaves our hearts all desolate. 

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; 

Transplanted into bliss, they now 
Adorn iminortal bowers. 

The bird-like voice, whose jojous tones. 
Made glad these scenes of sin and strife, 

Sings now an everlasting song, 
Around the tree of life. 

Where'er he sees a smile too bright. 
Or heart too pure for taint and vice, 

He bears it to that world of light. 
To dwell in Paradise. 

Born unto that undying life. 

They leave us but to come again ; 

With joy we welcome them the same, — 
Except their sin and pain. 



And ever near us, though unseen, 
The dear immortal spirits tread ; 

For all the boundless universe 
Is life — there are no dead. 



I^ORD Lytton. 



"LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT" 

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling 
gloom 

Lead Thou me on ; 
The night is dark, and I am far from home. 

Lead Thou me on; 
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene; one step's enough for 
me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on; 
I loved to choose and see my path ; but now 

Lead Thou me on ; 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past 
years. 

So long Thy power has blessed me, sure it 
still 

\yill lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, 
till 

The niglit is gone; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost 
awhile ! 

<» 

Meanwhile, along the narrow, rugged path 

Thyself has trod. 
Lead, Savior, lead me home in childlike 
faith, 

Home to my God, 
To rest forever after earthly strife 
In the calm light of everlasting life. » 

Cardin.vl Newman. 




MOTHER SHALL THREAD THEM A DAISY CHAIN. 



OF POETRr AND SONG. 



493 



CASTLES IX THE AIR. 

The bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in 

the ase, 
Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round 

face; 
Laughin' at the fuffin' lovve — what sees he 

there? 
Ha! the yonng dreamer's biggin' castles in 

the air I 



His wee chubby lace, an' his tousy curlv 

■. pow, 
Are laughin' an' noddin' to the dancin' 

lowe, 
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his 

sunny hair, 
Glow'rin' at the imps wi' Jtheir castles in 

tiie air. 



He sees muckle castles towerin' to the 

moon. 
He sees little sodgers po'in' tliem a' doun , 
Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, bleezin' \\ i' 

a tlare, 
Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in 

the air! 



For a' sae sage he looks, what can the lad- 
die ken ? 

He's thinkm' upon naething, like mony 
mighty men, 

A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing 
mak's us stare. 

There are mair folks than hmi biggin' 
castles in the air. 



Sic a night in winter niav \\ccl mak him 

cauld , 
His chin upon his Iniffv iiand will soon 

mak hnn auld; 
His brow is brent sae braid, so pray that 

Daddy Care 
Wad let tiic wean alane wi' his castles m 

the air. 



He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at 

tiie light; 
But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up 

by Night; 
Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a 

glare, 
Hearts are broken— heads are turned— wi' 

castles in the air. 

James Ballaxtixe. 



"LET THERE BE LIGHT!" 

" Let there be light," said God; and forth- 
with light 
Etiiereal, first of things, quintessence pure, 
Sprung from tiie deep, and from her native 

cast. 
To journey through the airy gloom began, 
Sphered in a radiant cloud, for yet the sun 
Was not; she in a cloudy tabernacle 
Sojourned the while. God saw the light 

was good. 
And iiglit from darkness, by the hemis- 

piiere, 
Divided: light the day, and darkness 

night, 
lie named; thus was the first dav even and 

morn ; 
Nor passed uncelebrated, nor unsung 
By the celestial ciioirs, when orient light 
Exhaling first from darkness thev beheld; 
birthday of heaven and earth: with jov 

and shout 
The hollow universal orb thev filled, 
And touched their golden harps, and hvmn- 

ing praised 
God and his works; Creator him they sung. 
Both when first evening was, and when 

fir^t morn. 

John Miltov. 



494 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE BRAVE OLD OAK. 

A SONG to the oak, the hrave old oak, 

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; 
Here's health and renown to his broad green 
crown, 
And his fifty arms so strong. 
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes 
down, 
And the fire in the west fades out; 
And he showeth his might on a wild mid- 
night. 
When the storms through his liranches 
shout. 

Then here's to the oak, the In-ave old 
oak, 
Who stands in his pride alone; 
And still flourish he, a hale green tree, 
When a hundred years are gone! 

In the days of old, when the spring with 
cold 
Had brightened his branches gray. 
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens 
sweet, 
To gather the dew of May. 
And on that day to the rebeck gay 

They frolicked with lovesome swains; 
They are gone, they are dead, in the churLli- 
yard laid. 
But the tree it still remains. 

Then here's to the oak, the brave old 
oak. 

Who stands in his pride alone; 
And still flourish he, a hale old tree, 

When a hundred years are gone! 

He saw the rare times when the Christmas 
chimes 
Were a merrv sound to hear, 
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage 
small 
Were filled with good English cheer. 
Nor gold hath the sway we all obey. 
And a ruthless king is he; 



But he never shall send om- ancient friend 
To be tossed on the stormy sea. 

Then here's to the oak, the brav e old 
oak, 

Who stands in his pride alone; 
And still flourish he, a hale old tree, 

When a hundred years are gone! 

Henry F. Choki.ey. 



TRIUMPH OF CIIARIS. 

See the chariot at hand here of I>o\ e! 

Wherein my lady rideth ! 
Each that draws is a swan, or a dove. 

And well the car Love gindeth. 
As she goes, all hearts do duty 

Unto her beauty. 
And, enamored, do wish, so the\' might 

But enjoy such a sight, 
That they still were to rim by her side 
Through swords, through seas, whither she 
would ride. 

Do but look on her eyes! they do light 

All that Love's world compriseth; 
Do but look on her hair! it is brigh*- ■ 

As Love's star when it riseth! 
Do but mark — her forehead's smoother 
Than words that soothe her! 
And from her arched brows such a grace 

Sheds itself through the face. 
As alone there triumphs to the life. 
All the gain, all the good of the elements 
strife. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow. 
Before rude hands have touched it.^ 

Have you marked but the fall of the snow,. 
Before the soil hath smutched it.? 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver.' 
Or swan's down ever.? 

Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? 
Or the nard i' the fire.? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee.? 

Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet is she!. 

Ben John.son. 




THE liRAVE OLD OAK. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



497 



JESUS. 

Jesus! the very thought of Thee 
With sweetness fills my breast; 

But sweeter far Thy face to see, 
And in Thy presence rest. 

Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, 

Nor can the memory tind 
A sweeter sound than Thy blest name, 

O Saviour of mankind ! 

O Hope of every contrite heart, 

O Joy of all the meek ! 
To those who fall how kind Thou art, 

How good to those who seek ! 

And those who find Thee, tlnd a bliss 
Nor tongue nor pen can show : 

The love of Jesus — what it is, 
None but His loved ones know. 

Saixt Bernard. 



EARLY RISING. 

"God bless the man who first invented 
sleep!" 

So Sancho Panza said, and so say I ; 
And bless him, also, that he didn't keep 

His great discovery to himself, nor try 
To make it— as the lucky fellow might— 
A close monopoly by patent-right! 

Yes,— bless the man who first invented 
sleep, 
(I reallv can't avoid the iteration ;) 

But blast the man with curses loud and 
deep, 
Whate'er the rascal's name or age or sta- 
tion. 

Who first invented, and went round ad- 
vising, 

That artificial cut-oft',- Early Rising! 

" Rise with the lark, and with the lark to 
bed," 
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl; 



Maxims like these are very chenply said; 

But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, 
Pray just inquire about his rise and fall. 
And whether larks have any beds at all ! 

The time for honest folks to be abed 
Is in the morning, if I reason right; 

And he who cannot keep his precious head 
Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, 

And so enjoy his forty morning winks. 

Is up to knavery, or else — he drinks! 

Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," 
said 
It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; 
But then he said it — lying — in his bed, 

At ten o'clock, a. m., — the very reason 
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact 

is, 
His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his 
practice. 

'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes 
awake, — 
Awake to duty, and awake to truth, — 
But when, alas! a nice review we take 
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in 
sooth, 
The hours that leave the slightest cause to 

weep 
Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep! 

'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile 
For the soft visions of the gentle night; 

And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, 
To live as only in the angels' sight, 

In sleep's sweet realm, so cosily shut in. 

Where, at the worst, we only dream of ,in ! 

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 
I like the lad who, when his father 
thought 
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed 
phrase 
Of vagrant worm by early songster 
caught. 



498 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Cried, " Served him right! — it's not at all 

surprising ; 
The worm was punished, sir, for early 

rising!" 

John G. Saxe. 



THE SEA. 

The sea, the sea, the open sea. 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free; 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; 

It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies> 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I'm on the sea, I'm on the sea, 

I itm where I would ever be, 

XVith the blue above and the blue below, 

And silence wheresoe'er I go. 

If a storm should come and awake the deep, 

What matter.? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, O, how I love to ride 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide. 
Where every mad wave drowns the moon 
And whistles aloft its tempest tune. 
And tells how goeth the world below. 
And why the sou'west wind doth blow^ ! 
I never was on the dull, tame shore 
But I loved the great sea more and more, 
And backward flew to her billowy breast, 
Like a bird that seeketh her mother's nest, 
And a mother she was and is to me, 
For I was born on the open sea. 

The waves were white, and red the morn. 
In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
•The whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild, 
As welcomed to life the ocean child. 
I have lived since then, in calm and strife, 
Full fifty summers a rover's life. 
With wealth to spend, and a power to range. 
But never have sought or sighed for change : 
And death, whenever he comes to me. 
Shall come on the wide, unbounded sea! 

B. W. Procter (Barry Cornwall.) 



SOME MURMUR. 

Some murmur, when their skv is clear 

.'Vnd wholly bright to view. 
If one small speck of dark appear 

In their great heaven of blue. 
And some with thankful love are filled, 

If but one streak of light, 
One ray of God's good mercy gild 

The darkness of their night. 

In palaces are hearts that ask. 

In discontent and pride. 
Why life is such a dreary task. 

And all good things denied. 
And hearts in poorest huts admire 

How Love has in their aid 
(Love that not ever seems to tire) 

Such rich provision made. 

Archbishop Trench. 



TO THE LORD GENERAL CROM- 
WELL. 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through 

a cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude. 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
To peace and truth thy glorious Way 

hast plough'd. 
And on the neck of crowned fortune proud 
Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work 

pursued. 
While Darwen stream with blood of 

Scots imbrued. 
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises 

loud, 
And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet 

much remains 
To conquer still ; peace hath her victories 
No less renown'd than war : new foes 

arise 
Threatening to bind our souls with secular 

chains: 
Help us to save free conscience from the 

paw 

Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their 

maw. 

John Milton. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



49d 



HYMN TO THE FLOWERS 

Day-stars! that ope jour eyes at morn to 
twinkle 
From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- 
tion ; 
And dew-drops on her lovely altars sprinkle 
As a libation. 

Ye matin worshipers! who bending lowly 
Before the uprisen sun, God's lid less eye, 
Pour from your chalices a sweet and holy 
Incense on high. 

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 
The floor of Nature's temple tesselate — 
What numerous lessons of instructive duty 
Your forms create! 

'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that 
swingeth, 
A 7id tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ring- 
eth 

A call to prayer. 

Not to those domes where crumbling arch 
and column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn. 
Which God hath plann'd; 

To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and 
moon supply ; 
Its choir, the wind and waves; its organ, 
thunder; 

Its dome, the sky. 

There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
Through the lone ai!>les, or stretch'd upon 
the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 

Not useless are ye, flowers, though made 
for pleasure, 
Blooming o'er hill and dale, ly- day and 
night; 



On every side your sanction bids me treas- 
ure 

Harmless delight! 

Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living 
preachers ; 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book; 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers. 
In loneliest nook. 

Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor 
Blush witliout sin, and weep without a 
crime ; 
Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er surren- 
der 

Your lore divine! 

"Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory 
Array'd," the lilies cry, " in robes like 
ours ; 
How vain your glory — Oh! how transitory 
Are human flowers!" 

In the sweet-scented pictures,heavenly artist, 
With which thou paintest Nature's wide- 
spread hall. 
What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
Of love to all ! 

Posthumous glories — angel-like collection 
Upraised Irom seed and bulb interr'd in 
earth ; 
Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
And second birth ! 

Ephemeral sages — what instructors hoary 
To such a world of thought could furnish 
scope .'' 
Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
Yet fount of hope. 

Were I, O God! in churchless lands re- 
maining. 
Far from the voice of teachers and di- 
vines. 
My soul would find in flowers of thy ordain- 
ing 

Priests, sermons, shrines! 

Horace Smith. 



500 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE CLOUD. 

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting 
flowers, 
From the seas and the streams ; 
I bear hght shades for the leaves when 
laid 
In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that 
waken 
The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's 
breast, 
As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under, 
And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bow- 
ers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits; 
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits; 
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
stream. 

The spirit he loves remains; 
And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue 
smile, 

While he is dissolving in rains. 

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
eyes. 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 

When the morning-star shines dead, 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 



An eagle alit, one moment mav sit. 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit 
sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine aii-y 
nest, 

As still as a broodino- dove. 



That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angel's hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's 
thin roof, 
The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
tent, 
Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me 
on high, 
Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun's throne with the burning 
zone, 
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel 
and swim, 
When the whirlwinds my banner imfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like 
shape. 
Over a torrent sea. 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof 

The mountains its columns be. 
The triumphal arch through which I 
march 
With hurricane, fire and snow, 
When the powers of the air are chained to 
my chair, 
Is the million-colored bow; 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



501 



The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
W'liile the moist earth was laughing 
below. 

I am the daughter of earth and water, 

And the nursling of the skv; 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
shores ; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain. 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their 
convex gleams. 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 
from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



OF HEAVEN. 

O beauteous God ! uncircumscribed trea- 
sure 
Of an eternal pleasure! 
Thy throne is seated far 
Above the highest star, 
Where Thou preparest a glorious place, 
Within the brightness of Thy face. 
For every spirit 
To inherit 

That builds his hopes upon Thy merit, 
And loves Thee with a holy charity. 

What ravished heart, seraphic tongue or 

eyes 
Clear as the morning rise, 
Can speak, or think, or see 
That bright eternity. 

Where the great king's transparent throne 
Is of an entire jasper stone.' 
There the eye 
O' the chrvsolite. 



And a sky 

Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase — 
And, above all, thy holy face — 
Make an eternal charity. 

When Thou Thy jewels up dost bind, that 

day 
Remember us, we pray — 
That where the beryl lies. 
And the crystal 'hove the skies. 
There Thou mayest appoint us a place 
Within the brightness of Thy face — 
And our soul 
In the scroll 

Of life and blissfulness enroll, 
That we may praise Thee to eternity. 

Jeremy Taylor. 



PATIENT MERCY JONES. 

Let us venerate the bones 

Of patient Mercy Jones, 

Who lies underneath Ihese stones. 

This is her story as once told to me 

By him who still loved her, as all men 

might see — 
Darius, her husband, his age seventy years, 
A man of few words, but, for her, many 

tears. 



Darius and Mercy were born in Vermont; 
Both children were christened at baptismal 

font 
In the very same place, on the very same 

day — 
(Not much acquainted just then, I dare 

say). 
The minister sprinkled the babies, and said, 
" Who knows but this couple some time 

may be wed. 
And I be the parson to join them together, 
For weal or for woe, through all sorts of 

weather!" 



502 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Well, they -vere married, and happier folk 

Never put bjth their heads in the same lov- 
ing yoke. 

They were poor, they worked hard, but 
nothing- could try 

The patience of Mercy, or cloud her bright 
eye. 

She was clothed with content as a beauti- 
ful robe; 

She had griefs — who has not on this change- 
able globe.'' — 

But at such times she seemed like the sister 
of Job. 

She was patient with dogmas, where light 

never dawns. 
She was patient with people who trod on 

her lawns; 
She was patient with folks who said blue 

skies were grey, 
And dentists and oxen that pulled the 

wrong wav ; 
She was patient with phrases no husband 

should utter. 
She was patient with cream that declined to 

be butter ; 
She was patient with buyers with nothing 

to pay. 
She was patient with talkers with nothing 

to say ; 
She was patient with millers whose trade 

was to cozen. 
And grocers who counted out ten to the 

dozen ; 
She was patient with bunglers and fault- 
finding churls, 
And tall, awkward lads who came courting 

her girls; 
She was patient with crockery no art could 

mend. 
And chimneys that smoked every day the 

wrong end ; 
She was patient with reapers who never 

would sow, 
And long-winded callers who never would 

go; 
She was patient with relatives, when, unin- 
vited, 



They came, ai:d devourei-1, then complained 

they were slighted ; 
She was patient with crows that got into the 

corn, 
And other dark deeds out of wantonness 

born ; 
She was patient with lightning that burned 

up the hay, 
She was patient with poultry unwilling to 

lay; 
She was patient with rogues who drank 

cider too strong. 
She was patient with sermons that lasted 

too long; 
She was patient with boots that tracked up 

her clean floors. 
She was patient with peddlers and other 

smooth bores ; 
She was patient with children who dis- 
obeyed rules. 
And, to crown all the rest, she was patient 

with fools. 

The neighboring husbands all envied the 

lot 
Of Darius, and wickedl}- got up a plot 
To bring o'er his sunshine an unpleasant 

spot. 
" You think your wife's temper is proof 

against fate. 
But -wc know of something her smiles will 

abate. 
When she gets out of wood, and for more 

is inclined, 
Just send home the crookedest lot you can 

tind; 
Let us pick it out, let us go and choose it, 
And we'll bet you a farm, when she comes 

for to use it. 
Her temper will crack like Nathan Dovv's 

cornet, 
And she'll be as mad as an elderly hornet." 

Darius was piqued, and he said, with a vum, 
" I'll pay for the wood, if you'll send it 

hum ; 
But depend on it, neighbors, no danger will 

come." 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



503 



Home came the gnarled roots, and a crook- 
eder load 

Never entered the gate of a christian abode. 

A ram's horn was straighter than anj stick, 
in it; 

It seemed to be wriggling about every min- 
ute; 

It would not stand up, and it would not lie 
down; 

It twisted the vision of one-half the town. 

To look at such fuel was really a sin, 

For the chance was strabismus would sure- 
ly set in. 

Darius said nothing to Mercy about it : 

It -was crooked wood — even she could not 

doubt it: 
But never a harsh word escaped her sweet 

lips, 
Any more than if the old snags were 

smooth chips. 
She boiled with them, baked with them, 

washed with them through 
The long winter months, and none ever 

knew 
But the wood was as straight as Mehitable 

Drew, 
Who was straight as a die, or a gun, or an 

arrow. 
And who made it her business all male 

hearts to harrow. 

When the pile was burned up, and they 

needed more wood, 
" Sure, now," mused Darius, " I shall catch 

it good ; 
She has kept her remarks all condensed for 

the Spring, 
And my ears, for the trick, now deserve 

well to sing. 
She never did scold me, but now she will 

pout. 
And say with such wood she is nearly worn 

out." 

But Mercy, unruffled, was calm, like the 
stream 



That reflects back at evening the sun's per- 
fect beam ; 

And she looked at Darius, and lovingly 
smiled. 

As she made this request with a temper un- 
riled : 

" We are wanting more fuel, I'm sorry to 
say, 

I burn a great deal too much every day, 

And I mean to use less than I have in the 
past; 

But get, if you can, dear, a load like the 
last ; 

I never had wood that Hiked half so well — 

Do see who has nice crooked fuel to sell : 

There's nothing that's better than wood full 
of knots. 

It lays so complete round the kettles and 
pots. 

And washing and cooking are really like 
play 

When the sticks nestle close in so charm- 
ing a way. 

James T. Fields. 



BETTER IN THE MORNING. 

" You can't help the baby, parson, 

But still, I want ye to go 
Down an' look in upon her. 

An' read an' pray, you know. 
Only last week she wasskippin' 'round 

A pullin' my whiskers 'n' hair, 
A climbin' up to the table 

Into her little high chair. 

" The first night that she took it 

When her little cheeks grew red, 
When she kissed good night to papa, 

And went away to bed — 
Sez she, ' 'Tis headache, papa. 

Be better in mornin' — bye;' 
An' somethin' in how she said it, 

Just made me want to cry. 



504 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



" But the mornin' brought the fever, 


The unseen, silent messenger 


And her Httle hands were hot, 


Had waited at the door. 


An' the pretty red uv her cheeks 


" Papa — kiss — baby ; — I'se so tired." 


Grew into a crimson spot, 


The man bows low his face, 


But she laid there jest ez patient 


And two swollen hands are lifted 


Ez ever a xvoinan could, 


In baby's last embrace. 


Takin' whatever we give her 




Better 'n a grown woman would. 


And into her father's grizzled beard 




The little red fingers clmg, 


" The days are terrible long an' slow, 


While her husky whispered tenderness 


An' she 's goin' wus in each ; 


Tears from a rock would wring. 


And now she 's jest a slippin' 


" Baby — is — $o — sick— papa — 


Clear away out uv our reach. 


But — don't — want you to crv ;" 


Every night when I kiss her, 


The little hands tall on the coverlet — 


Tryin' hard not to cry, 


" Be — better — in — mornin' — bye." 


She says in a way that kills me — 




'Be better in mornin' — bye.' 


And night around the baby is falling, 




Settling down hard and dense; 


" She can't get thro' the night, parson, 


Does God need their daningin heaven 


So I want ye to come an' pray. 


That He must carry her hence.' 


And talk with mother a little — 


I prayed, with tears in my voice 


y'oii'll know jest what to say ; — 


As the Corporal solemnly knelt 


Not that the baby needs it, 


With grief such as never before 


Nor that we make any complaint 


His great warm heart had felt. 


That God seems to ihink He's needin' 




The smile uv the little saint." 


Oh, frivolous men and women ! 




Do you know that round you, and 


I walked along with the Corporal 


nigii — 


To the door of his humble home. 


Alike from the humble and haughty 


To which the silent messenger 


Goeth up evermore the crv : 


Before me had also come, 


"My child, my precious, my darling, 


And if I had been a titled prince. 


How can I let you die ! " 


I could not have been honored more 


Oh! hear ye the white lips whisper — 


Than I was with his heartfelt welcome 


" Be — better — in — mornin' — bye." 


To his lowly cottage door. 


Leaxder S. Coan. 


Night falls again in the cottage; 






They move in si:ence and dread 
Around the room where the baby 


XERXES AT THE HELLESPONT. 


Lies panting upon her bed. 


" Calm is now that slormv water, — it has 


" Does baby know papa, darling.'' " 


learned to tear my wrath : 


And she moves her little face 


Lashed and fettered, now it yields me for 


With answer that she knows him ; 


my hosts an easy path !" 


But scarce a visible trace, 


Seven long days did Persia's monarch on 




the Hellespontine shore, 


Of her wonderful infantile beauty 


Throned in state, behold his armies without 


Remains as it was before — 


pause defiling o'er; 



-t 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



505 



Only on the eighth the rearward to the 
other side were past, — 

Then one haughty glance of triumph far 
as eye could reach he cast; 

Far as eye could reach he saw them, mul- 
titudes equipped for war, — 

Medians with their bows and quivers, link- 
ed armor and tiar; 

From beneath the sun of Afric, from the 
snowy hills of Thrace, 

And from India's utmost borders, nations 
ga hered in one place: 

At a single mortal's bidding all this pomp 
of war unt'urled, — 

All in league against the freedom and the 
one hope of the world ! 



" What though once some petty trophies 
from my captains thou hast won, 

Think, not, Greece, to see another such a 
dav as Marathon : 

Wilt thou dare await the conflict, or in bat- 
tle hope to stand, 

When the lord of sixty nations takes him- 
self his cause in hand? 

Lo! they come, and mighty rivers, which 
they drink of once, are dried ; 

And the wealthiest cities beggared, that for 
them one meal provide. 

Powers of numbers by their numbers infi- 
nite are overborne, 

So I measure men by measure, as a hus- 
bandman his corn. 

Mine are all, — this sceptre sways them, — 
mine is all in every part!" 

And he named himself most happy, and he 
blessed himself in heart, — 

Blessed himself, but on that blessing tears 
abundant followed straight, 

For that moment thoughts came o'er him 
of man's painful brief estate : 



Ere a hundred years were finished, where 

would all those myriads be? 
Hellespont would still be rolling his blue 
waters to the sea; 



But of all those countless numbers, not one 

living would be found, — 
A dead host with their dead monarch, silent 

in the silent ground. 

Archbishop Trench. 



THE BATTLE-SONG OF GUSTAVUS 
ADOLPHUS. 

Fear not, O little flock, the foe 
Who madly seeks your overthrow, 

Dread not his rage and power; 
What though your courage sometimes 

faints? 
His seeming triumph o'er God's saints 

Lasts but a little hour. 



Be of good cheer; your cause belongs 
To Him who can avenge your wrongs, 

Leave it to Him, our Lord. 
Though hidden from our longing eyes, 
He sees the Gideon who shall rise 

To save us, and His word. 



As true as God's own word is true. 
Not earth or hell with all their crew 

Against us shall prevail. 
A jest and by-word are they grown; 
God is with us, we are His own, 

Our victory cannot fail. 



Amen, Lord Jesus; grant our prayer! 
Great Captain, now Thine arm make bare; 

Fight for us once again! 
So thall the saints and martyrs raise 
A mighty chorus to Thy praise. 

World without end ! Amen. 

Michael Altexburg. 



506 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



HOW BETSY AND I MADE UP. 

Give us your hand, Mr. Lawyer, how do 

you do to day ? 
You drew up that paper — I s'pose you 

want your pay. 
Don't cut down your figures; make it an 

X or a V ; 
For that 'ere written agreement was just the 

makin' of me. 

Goin' home that evenin' I tell you I was 

blue, 
Thinkin' of all my troubles, and what I was 

goin' to do; 
And if my bosses hadnt been the steadiest 

team alive, 
They'd have tipped me over, certain, for I 

couldn't see where to drive. 

No — for I was laborin' under a heavy load ; 
No — for I was travelin' an entirely different 

road ; 
For I was a tracin' over the path of our 

lives ag'in, 
And seein' where we missed the way, and 

where we might have been. 

And many a corner we'd turned that just to 

a quarrel led. 
When I ought to 've held my temper and 

driven straight ahead; 
And the more I thought it over, the more 

these memories came ; 
And the more I struck the opinion that I 

was the most to blame. 

And things I had long forgotten kept risin' 

in my mind. 
Of little matters betwixt us, where Betsy 

was good and kind ; 
And these things flashed all thro me, as you 

know things sometimes will, 
When a feller's alone in the darkness, and 

everything is still. 

"But" says I, "we're too far along to take 
another track, 



And when I put my hand to the plow I do 

not oft turn back ; 
And 'taint an uncommon thing now for 

couples to smash in two;" 
And so I set my teeth together, and vowed 

I'd see it through. 

When I come in sight o' the house, 'twas 

some'at in the night. 
And just as I turned a hill-top I see the 

kitchen light; 
Which often a han'some pictur' to a hungry 

person makes ; 
But it don't interest a feller much that's 

going to pull up stakes. 

And when I went in the house, the table 
was set for me — 

As good a supper's I ever saw, or ever 
w'ant to see; 

And I crammed the agreement down my 
pocket as well as I could. 

And fell to eating my victuals, which some- 
how didn't taste good. 

And Betsy, she pretended to look about the 

house, 
And she watched my side coat pocket like 

a cat would watch a mouse ; 
And then she went to foolin' a little with 

her cup. 
And intently reading a newspaper, a holdin' 

it wrong side up. 

And when I'd done my supper I drawed 

the agreement out. 
And gave it to her without a word, for she 

knowed what it was about, 
And then I hummed a little tune, but now 

and then a note 
Was busted by some animal that hopped 

up in my throat. 

Then Betsy she got her specs from ofi the 

mantel-shelf, 
And read the article over quite softly to 

herself — 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



507 



Read it by little and little, for her eyes is 
getting old, 

And lawyer's writin' ain't no print, especi- 
ally when its cold. 

And after she'd read a little she gave my 

arm a touch, 
And kindly said she was afraid I was lovin' 

her too much; 
And when she was through she went for 

me, her face a streaming with tears, 
And kissed me for the first time m over 

twenty years ! 

I don't know what you'll think sir, I didn't 

come to enquire — 
But I picked up that agreement and stuffed 

it into tlie fire; 
And I told her we'd bury the hatchet 

alongside of the cow: 
And we struck an agreement never to have 

another row. 

And I told her in the future I wouldn't 

speak cross or rash, 
If half the crockery in the house was 

broken all to smash; 
And she said, in reg irds to heaven, we'd 

try and learn its worth, 
By startin' a br^inch establishment, and 

runnin it here on earth. 

And so we sat a talkin' three quarters of 

the night, 
And opened our hearts to each other until 

they both grew light; 
the days when I was winnin' her away 

from so many men. 
Was nothin' to that evenin' I courted her 

over again. 

Next mornin' an ancient virgin took pains 

to call on us, 
Her lamp all trimmed and a burnin' to stir 

up another fuss; 
But when she went to pryin' and openin' of 

old sores, 
My Betsy rose politely and showed her out 

of doors. 



Since then I don't deny but there's been a 
word or two, 

But we've got our eyes wide open, and 
know just what to do; 

When one speaks cross the other just 
meets it with a laugh. 

And the first one's ready to give up con- 
siderable more than half. 

Maybe you'll think me soft, sir, a talkin' in 

this style. 
But, somehow, it does me lots of good to 

tell it once in a while; 
And I do it for a compliment — 'tis so that 

you can see 
That that there written agreement of yours 

was just the making of me. 

So make out your bill, Mr. Lawyer; don't 

stop short of an X ; 
Make it more if you want to, for I have 

got the checks ; 
I'm richer than a National Bank with all 

its treasure told. 
For I've got a w-ife at home now that's 

worth her weight in gold. 

Will M. Carleton. 



BOSTON HYMN. 

Read in Music Hall, January ist, 1S63. 

The word of the Lord by night 
To the watchmg pilgrims came. 
As they sat by the seaside. 
And filled their hearts with flame. 

God said I am tired of kings — 
I suffer them no more; 
Up to my ear the morning brings 
The outrage of the poor. 

Think ye I made this ball 

A field of havoc and war. 

Where tyrants great and tyrants small 

Might harry the weak and poor? 



508 



ILLUSTRATED HOME LOOK 



My angel — his name is Freedom — 


Help them who cannot help again : 


Choose him to be your king; 


Beware from right to swerve. 


He shall cut pathways East and West, 




And 'fend you witli his wing. 


I break your bonds and masterships, 




And I unchain the slave, 


Lo! I uncover the land 


Free be his heart and hand henceforth, 


Which I hid of old time in the West, 


As wind and wandering wave. 


As the sculptor uncovers the statue 
When he has wrought his best. 


I cause from evei-y creature 
His proper good to flow; 


I show Columbia of the rocks 
Which dip their toot in the seas. 


As much as he is and doeth. 
So nmch he shall bestow. 


And soar to the air-born flocks 
Of clouds, and the boreal fleece. 


But laying hands on another 
To coin his labor and sweat. 


I will divide my goods; 
Call in the wretch and slave; 


He goes in pawn to his victim, 
For eternal years in debt. 


None shall rule but the humble, 
And none but toil shall have. 


To-day unbind the captive. 
So only are ye unbound; 




Lift up a people from the dust, 


I will have never a noble, 


Trump of their rescue, sound. 


No lineage counted great; 




P'ishers, and choppers, and plowmen. 


Pay ransom to the owner 


Shall constitute a state. 


And fill the bag to the brim. 




Who is the owner.? The slave is owner, 


Go, cut down trees in the forest. 


And ever was. Pay him. 


At,d trim the straightest boughs; 




Cut down trees in the forest. 


North! give him beauty for rags. 


And build me a wooden house. 


And honor, O South! for his shame; 




Nevada! coin thy golden crags. 


Call the people together, 


With Freedom's image and name. 


The young men and the sires. 




The digger in the harvest-field 


Up! and the dusky race 


Hireling, and him that hires. 


That sat in darkness long, 




Be swift their feet as antelopes. 


And here in a pine state house 


And as behemoth strong. 


They shall choose men to rule. 




In every needful faculty, 


Come East, and West, and North, 


In church, and state, and school. 


By races, as snow-flakes. 




And carry my purpose forth, 


Lo, now! if these poor men 


Which neither halts nor shakes. 


Can govern the land and sea. 




And make just laws below the sun 


My way fulfilled shall be, 


As planets faithful be. 


For, in daylight or in dark, 




My thunderbolt has eyes to see 


And ye shall succor men; 


His way home to the mark. 


'Tis nobleness to serve ; 


Ralph Waldo Emerson, 



OF POETR2' AND SONG. 



509 



BREVITY OF LIFE. 


How SOON 


Behold! 


Our new-born light 




Attains to full-aged noon ! 


How short a span 


And this, how soon to grey-hair'd night! 


Was long enougli of old 


We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we 


To measure out the life of man! 


blast, 


In those well-tempered days his time was 


Ere we can count our days, our days they 


then 


flee so fast. 


Survey'd, cast up, and found but three- 




score years and ten. 


They end 


Alas! 


When scarce begun. 


And ere we apprefiend 


And what is that.' 


That we begin to live, our life is done. 


They come, and slide, and pass, 


Man ! count thy days ; and if they fly too 


Before my pen can tell thee what. 


fast 


The posts of time are swift, which, having 


For thy dull thoughts to count, count 


run 


every day thy last. 


Their sev'n short stages o'er, their short- 




liv'd task is done. 


Francis Quarles. 


OUK DAYS 






AN IDLE POET. 


Begun, we lend 




To sleep, to antic plays 


'Tis said that when the nightingale 
His mate has found. 


And toys, until the first stage end : 


Twelve waning moons, twice five times 


He fills no more the vvoodland deeps 


told, we give 


With songful sound. 


To unrecover'd loss — we rather breathe 




than live. 


I sing not since I found my love. 




For, like the bird's 


How VAIN, 


My heait is full of song too sweet 


How wretched is 


Too deep for words. 


Poor man that doth remain 


T. H. Robertson. 


A slave to such a state as this! 




His days are short, at longest; few, at 




most ; 


MAJOR AND MINOR. 


They are but bad, at best; yet lavished 




out or lost. 


A BIRD sang sweet and strong 




In the top of the highest tree; 


They be 


He sang, — " I pour out my soul in song 


The secret springs, 


For the summer that soon shall be." 


That make our minutes flee 






But deep in the shadv wood 


On wheels more swift than eagles' wines. 


" 


Another bird sang, — " I pour 


Our life's a clock, and every gasp of 
breath 


My soul on the silent solitude 


For the springs that return no more." 


Breathes forth a warning grief, till time 




shall strike a death. 


George Wm. Curtis. 



510 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



LOVE. 

Love is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing, 
A plant that most with cutting grows, 

Most barren with best using. 

Why so.? 

More we enjoy it, more it dies, 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heigh-ho ! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 

A ic-mpest everlasting; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind 

Not well, not full, nor fasting. 

Why so.' 

More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 

Heigh-ho! 

Samuel Daniel. 



MIGNONETTE, 

As I sit at my desk by the window, when 

the garden with dew is wet. 
On the morning incense rises tne breath of 

the mignonette. 
Laden with tender memories of thirty 

years ago, 
When she gave me her worthless promise, 

and we loved each other so, 
Till her tough old worldly mother let her 

maiden charms be sold. 
To a miser, as hard and yellow as his hoard 

of shining gold. 
As in the park I met them on their 

cheerful morning ride, 
As she snarled at her henpecked husband 

who was crouching by her side, 
I thought in the dust of the pathway, " I 

have the best of you yet! " 
Far better the dream of a fadeless love in 

the breath of the mignonette, 



And lit le Alice and Mabel, and the child- 
ren that might have been. 

Come dancing out on the paper at a twirl 
of the magic pen, — 

Not a horrid boy among them, but a bevy 
of little girls 

With great brown eyes, love shining, 'mid 
a halo of yolden curls. 

They never grow old or naughty; and in 
them I fail to see 

The slightest fault or taint of sin which 
could have been charged to me 

They are mine, all mine forever! 
No lover to them can come. 

To steal away their loving hearts to grace 
a doubtful home. 

And so, when the tender evening or morn- 
ing with dew is wet, 

I dream of my vanished darlings in the 
breath of the mignonette. 

George B. Bartlett. 



GOLD. 

Gold ! gold ! gold ! gold ! 
Bright and yellow, hard and cold, 
Molten, graven, hammered and rolled; 
Heavy to get, and light to hold; 
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold, 
Stolen borrowed, squandered, doled; 
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the 

old 
To the very verge of the churchyard mould ; 
Price of many a crime untold ; 
Gold ! geld ! gold ! gold ! 
Good or bad a thousand-fold ! 

How widely its agencies vary, — 
To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless, — 
As even its minted coins express. 
Now stamped with the image of 

Queen Bess, 
And now of a Bloody Mary. 



good 



Thomas Hood. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



511 



MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND. 

Fathkr, I know that all mj life 

Is portioned out tor me, 
And the changes that are sure to come 

I do not fear to see ; 
But I ask Thee for a patient mind, 

Intent on pleasing Thee. 

I ask Thee for a thoughtful love. 
Through constant watching wise, 

To meet the glad with joyful smiles, 
And wipe the weeping eyes; 

And a heart at leisure from itself, 
To soothe and sympathize. 

I would not have the restless will 

That hurries to and fro, 
Seeking for some great thing to do, 

Or secret thing to know; 
I would be treated as a child, 

And guided where I go. 

Wherever in the world I am, 

In whatso'er estate, 
I have a fellowship with hearts 

To keep and cultivate, 
And a work of lowly love to do 

For the Lord on whom I wait. 

So I ask Thee for the daily strength. 

To none that ask denied. 
And mind to blend with outward life 

While keeping at Thy side; 
Content to fill a little space, 

If Thou be glorified. 

There are briars besetting every path. 

That call for patient care; 
There is a cross in every lot, 

And an earnest need for prayer; 
But the lowly heart that leans on Thee 

Is happy anywhere. 

^n a service which Thy will appoints. 
There are no bonds for me ; 



For my inmost heart is taught " the truth," 
That makes Thv children " free," 

And a life of self-renouncing love 
Is a life of liberty. 

A. L. Waring. 



THE MARSEILLES HYMN. 

Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory! 

Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise! 
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary. 

Behold their tears and hear their cries! 
Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, 
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, 
Aftright and desolate the land, 
While peace and liberty lie bleeding.'' 
To arms! to arms! ye brave! 

Th' avenging sword unsheathe; 
March on ! march on ! all hearts re- 
solved 
On victory or death. 

Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling 
Which treacherous kings confederate 
raise ; 
The dogs of war, let loose are howling. 

And lo! our fields and cities blaze; 
And shall we basely view the ruin, 

While law-less force, with guilty stride. 
Spreads desolation far and wide, 
With crimes and blood his hands embruing. 
To arms! to arms! ye brave. 

O Liberty! can man resign thee. 

Once having felt thy generous flame.' 
Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee! 

Or whips thy noble spirit tame.' 
Too long the world has wept, bewailing 
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield. 
But freedom is our sword and shield, 
And all their arts are unavailing. 

To arms! to arms! ye brave. 

RouGET DE Lisle. 



512 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



FRIENDSHIP. 

A RUDDY drop of manly blood 

The surging sea outweighs; 

The world uncertain comes and goes, 

The lover rooted stays. 

I fancied he was flcu, — 

And, after many a year, 

Glowed unexhausted kindliness, 

Like daily sunrise there. 

My careful heart was free again.^ 

O friend, my bosom said. 

Through thee alone the sky is arched. 

Through thee the rose is red ; 

All things through thee take nobler form, 

And look beyond the earth; 

The mill-round of our fate appears 

A sun -path in thy worth. 

Me too thy nobleness has taught 

To master my despair; 

The fountains of my hidden life 

Are through thy friendship fair. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair.'' 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary, fu' o' care.'' 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling 
bird, 

That wantons through the flowering 
thorn ; 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 

And, fondly, sae did I o' mine 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
And m}' fause lover stole my rose. 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 

Robert Burns. 



THE GREENWOOD. 

O, WHEN 't is summer weather, 
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound, 
The waters clear is humming round, 
And the cuckoo sings unseen. 
And the leaves are waving green, — 

O, then 'tis sweet. 

In some retreat, 
To hear the murmuring dove. 
With those whom on earth alone we love. 
And to wind through the greenwood to- 
gether. 

But when 't is winter weather, 

And crosses grieve. 

And friends deceive. 

And rain and sleet 

The lattice beat,— 

O, then 'tis sweet 

To sit and sing 
Of the friends with whom, in the days of 

spring, 
We roamed through the greenwood together 

William Lisle Bowles, 



HUMILITY. 

Thy home is with the humble. Lord! 

The simplest are the best; 
Thy lodging is in child-like hearts; 

Thou makest there Thy rest. 

Dear Comforter! Eternal Love! 

If Thou wilt stay with me. 
Of lowly thoughts and simple ways, 

I'll build a house for Thee. 



Who made this beating heart of mine 
But Thou, my heavenly Guest.' 

Let no one have it, then, but Thee, 
And let it be Thy rest! 

Anonymous. 





■ 




\ 

. . . 




. 


^ 


s 


OF POETRT 


AND SONG. 


513 





"NIGGER MIGHTY HAPPY." 

Hog start a-runnin' when de overseer 
calliri'; 

Whippervvill holler when de jew-draps 
liillin'; 

Duck keep a-quakin' when de hard rain 
po'in'; 

Crows flock togedder when de young corn 
growin'; 

Pig gwine to squeal when de milk-maid 
churnin'; 

Nigger mighty happy when de blackber- 
ries turnin' ! 

Squ'el go to jumpin' when de scaly- barks 

comin'; 
Bee-martin sail when de honey-bee hum- 

min'; 
Lean hoi se nicker when de pumpkin-vine 

spreadin'; 
Rabbit back his ear when de cabbage-stalk 

head in'; 
Rooster start a-crowin' when de broad day 

breakin'; 
Nigger mighty happy when de hoe-cake 

bakin'; 

Big fish flutter when he done cotch de 

cricket; 
Bullfrog libely when he singin' in de 

thicket; 
Mule git slicker when de plantin'-time 

OTcr; 
Colt mighty ga'ly when you turn him in 

de clover; 
An' it come mighty handy to the nigger 

man natcr 
When he soppin' in de gravy wid a big 

yam 'tater! 

Black-snake waitin' while de old hen 
hatchin'; 

Sparrer-hawk lookin' whiie de little chick- 
ens scratchin' ; 

Big owl jolly when de little bird singin'; 

'Possum gwine to clam wiiar de ripe 'sim- 
mons swingin'; 



Nigger mighty happy — ef he aint wuf a 

dollar — 
When he startin' out co'tin' wid a tall 

stan'in' collar! 

J. A. Macox. 



SHAPING THE FUTURE. 

We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
Of which the coming life is made, 

And fill our future atmosphere 
With sunshine or with shade. 

The tissue of the life to be 

We weave with colors all our own, 
And in the field of destiny 

We reap as we have sown. 

Still shall the soul around it call 

The shadows which it gathered here. 

And painted on the eternal wall, 
The past shall reappear. 

Think ye the notes of holy song 
On Milton's tuneful ear have died? 

Think ye that Raphael's angel throng 
Has vanished from his side.'* 

Oh, no! we live our life again ; 

Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, 
The picture's of the past remain — 

Man's work shall follow him. 

Anonymous. 



TO BE NO MORE. 

To be no more — sad cvire; for who would 

lose 
Though full of pain, this intellectual being, 
Those thoughts that wander through 

eternity, 
To perish rather, swallowed up and lost 
In the wide womb of uncreated night, 
Devoid of sense and motion.'' 



John Milton. 



514 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

I'm wearing awa', Jean, 

Like snaw wreatlis in thaw, Jean; 

I'm wearing awa' 

To the land o' the leal. 
There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
The day is aye fair 

In the land o' the leal. 

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean; 
Your task's ended noo, Jean, 
And I'll welcome you 

To the land o' the leal. 
Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
She was baith guid and fair, Jean : 
And oh, we grudged her sair 

To the land o' the leal! 

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
And angels wait on me 

To the land o' the leal ! 
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
This warld's care is vain, Jean; 
We'll meet and aye be fain 

In the land o' the leal. 

Carolina, Baroness Nairn. 



ENID'S SONG. 
from "idyls of the king." 

Turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower 

the proud : 
Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, 

storm and cloud ; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate. 

Turn, fortune, turn thy wheel with smile 

or frown ; 
With that wild wheel we go not up or 

down ; 
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 



Smile and we smile, the lords of many 

lands; 
Frown and we smile the lords of our own 

hands; 
For man is man and master of his fate. 

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring 

crowd ; 
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 

cloud; 
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 

hate. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



WARREN'S ADDRESS. 

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves? 
Will ye look for greener graves, 

Hope ye mercy still } 
What's the mercy despots feel.'' 
Hear it in that battle peal, 
Read it on yon bristling steel, 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire.^ 
Will ye to your homes retire .'' 
Look behind you, — they're afire! 

And before you, see 
Who have done it! From the vale 
On they come — and will ye quail? 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust! 
Die we may, — and die we must: 
But, O where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed. 
And the rocks shall raise their head. 

Of his deeds to tell? 

John Pierpont. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



515 



MY DAUGHTER AND THE 
DAISIES. 

I GAVE mj little girl back to the daisies, 

From them it was that she took, her name; 

I gave my precious one back to the daisies 

From whore they caught their color she 
came ; 

And now when I look in the face of a 
daisy, 

My little girl's face I see, I see! 

My tears, down dropping, with theirs com- 
mingle, 

And they give me my precious one back 
to me. 

George Houghton. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
bird! 
No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was 
heard 
In ancieiit days by emperor and clown,-— 
Perhaps the selfsame song that ibund a 
path 
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when 
sick for home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 

The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the 
foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn. 

John Keats. 



RISE AND LABOR. ' 

I HAD drank with lips unsated 
Where the founts of pleasure burst, 
I had hewn out broken cisterns. 
But they mocked my spirit's thirst; 
And I said life is a desert 
Hot, and measureless and dry, 



And God will not give me water, 
Though I thirst and pant and die! 

Spoke there then a friend and brother: 
" Rise and roll the stone awaj'. 
There are wells of life up springing 
To thy pathway every day." 

But I said : " My lips are sinful. 
Very sinful in my speech, 
And the wells of God's salvation 
Are too deep for me to reach." 

Then he answered " Rise and labor, 
Doubt and Idleness are Death, 
Shape thee out a goodly vessel 
With the strong hand of thy faith." 

Then I rose and shaped a vessel 
And knelt lowly, humbly, there 
And I drew up living water, 
By the golden chain of prayer. 

Anonymous. 



GUI BONO.? 



What is hope.'' A smiling rainbow 
Children follow through the wet: 

'Tis not here — still yonder, yonder; 
Never urciiin found it yet. 

What is life.'' A thawing iceboard 

On a sea with sunny shore: 
Gay we sail; it melts beneath us; 

We are sunk and seen no more. 

What is man.'' A foolish baby; 

Vainlv strives and fights and frets: 
Demanding all, deserving nothing, 

One small grave is all he gets. 

Thomas Carlyle. 



516 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 

WRITTEN IN HOSPITAL, WHILE LYING 
MORTALLY WOUNDED AT CHICKA- 

MAUGA. 

" I am dying, Egypt, dying." — Shakespeare, 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying, 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast. 
And the dark, Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast. 
Let thine arm, O Queen, support me! 

Hush thy sobs, and bow thine ear! 
Hearken to the great heart secrets 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarred and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 
And my wrecked and scattered galleys 

Strew dark Actium's fatal shore; 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 

Prompt to do their master's will, 
I must perish like a Roman, 

Die the great triumvir still. 

Let not Caesar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low; 
'Twas no foeman's hand that slew him, 

'Twas his own that struck the blow. 
Hear, then, pillowed on thy bosom. 

Ere his star fades quite away. 
Him who, drunk with thy caresses, 

Madly flung a world away ! 

Should the base plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my fame at Rome, 
Where the noble spouse, Octavia, 

Weeps within her widowed home. 
Seek her, say the gods have told me, 

Altars, augurs, circling wings. 
That her blood, with mine commingled. 

Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! 
Light the path to Stygian horrors 

With the splendors of thy smile; 



Give the C?esar crowns and arches, 
Let his brow the laurel tw'ne, 

I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 
Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying; 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ! 
They are coming — quick, my falchion ! 

Let me front them ere I die. 
Ah ! no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell! 
Isis and Osiris guard thee, 

Cleopatra! Rome! — farewell! 

William H. Lytle. 



LONG TIME AGO. 

Near the lake where drooped the willow. 

Long tiine ago! 
Where the rock threw back the billow. 

Brighter than snow : 
Dwelt a maid beloved and cherished. 

By high and low; 
But with Autumn's leaf she perished 

Long time ago! 

Rock and tree, and flowing water. 

Long time ago! 
Bee and bird, and blossom taught her 

Love's spell to know ! 
While to my fond words she listened, 

Murmuring low. 
Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened. 

Long time ago! 

Can I now forget her.' Never! 

No, lost one, no! 
To her grave these tears are given 

Ever to flow; 
She's the star I missed from heaven 

Long time ago. 

George P. Morris. 




LONG TIME AGO. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



519 



MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS! 

My mind to me a kingdom is! 
Such present joy therein I find 
That it excels all other bliss 
That earth affords or grows by kind; 

Though much I want which most would 
have, 

Yet still mj mind forbids to crave. 

I see how plenty suffers oft, 
And hasty climbers soon do fall ; 
I see that those which are aloft 
Mishap doth threaten most of all. 

They get with toil, they keep with fear; 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Content I live, this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may sutlice ; 

I press to bear no haughty sway ; 

Look, what I lack my mind supplies. 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 

Some have too much, yet still do crave; 
I little have, and seek no more : 
They are but poor though much they have. 
And I am rich with little store : 

They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 

They lack, I leave; they pine, I live! 

I laugh not at another's loss; 
I grudge not at another's gain ; 
No worldly waves my mind can toss; 
My state at one doth sti'l remain. 

I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; 

I loathe not life, nor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasure by their lu 
Their wisdom by their rage of will; 
Their treasure is their only trust, 
A cloaked craft their store of skill; 

But all the pleasure that I find 

Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 
My conscience clear my choice defence 



I neither seek by bribes to please, 
Nor by deceit to breed offence: 
Thus do I live, thus will I die: 
Would tliat all did so well as I ! 

Sir Edward Dyer. 



THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. 

Let us go, lassie, go, 

To the braes o' Blaquhither, 
Where the blae-berries grow, 

'Mang the bonny Highland heather; 
Where the deer and the roe, 

Lightly bounding together, 
Sport the lang summer day 

On the braes o' Balquhither. 

I will twine thee a bower 

By the clear siller fountain. 
And I'll cover it o'er 

Wi' the flowers of the mountain; 
I will range through the wilds 

And the deep glens sae drearie, 
And return wi' the spoils 

To the bower o' my dearie. 

When the rude wintry win' 

Idly raves round our dwelling. 
And the roar of the linn 

On the night-breeze is swelling, 
So merrily we'll sing. 

As the storm rattles o'er us. 
Till the dear sheiling ring 

Wi' the light lilting chorus. 

Now the summer's in prime 

Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 
And the wild mountain thyme 

A' the moorlands perfuming; 
To our dear native scenes 

Let us journey together. 
Where glad innocence reigns 

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 

Robert Tanxahill. 



520 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls ! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 
From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes. 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this 
prayer ! 
Descend with broad-winged flight. 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the 
most fair. 
The best-beloved Night! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 



LA BELLE AMERICAINE. 

'Tis very sweet to sit and gaze, dear girl, 

On thy fair face. 
As glowing as a crimson-shaded pearl 

Or lighted vase. 
Young beauty brightens, like an Eden- 
dream, 

On thy pure cheek, 
And joy and love from every feature seer.i 

To breathe and speak. 



I love to kneel in worship to the Sprite 

In thy dark eyes. 
Dark as the fabled Stygian stream, and 
bright 

As Paradise. 
Not oft the radiance of such eyes is given 

To light our way; 
And oh, to me there's not a star in heaven 

So bright as they. 

I've known thee but a few brief days, and 
yet 

Thou wilt remain 
An image of undying beauty, set 

On heart and brain. 
Each thought, each dream of thee, feir girl, 
will seem 

Mid toil and strife, 
A pure white lily swaying on the stream 

Of this dark life. 

The months will pass, the flowers will soon 
be bright 
On plain and hill. 
And the young birds, with voices of delight, 

The woodlands fill ; 
Oh, in that fairy season thou shalt be — 

'Mid budding bowers— 
My heart's young May-queen, and I'll twine 
for thee 
The Heart's wild flowers. 

Geo. D. Prentice. 



SONG OF THE BROOK. 

I COME from haunts of coot and hern; 

I make a sudden sally 
And sparkle out among the ferns. 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 
Or slip between the ridges; 

By twenty thorps, a little town. 
And half a himdred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming n\'er; 

For men may come and men ma}- go, 
But I go on forever. 



OF POETRT AND SONU. 



521 



1 chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles: 
1 bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 

By many a field and fallow, 
And many a fairy foreland set 

With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 

With here a blossom sailing, 
And here and there a lusty trout, 

And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel, 
With many a silvery waterbreak 

Above the golden gravel; 

And draw them all along, and flow- 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots; 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. 
Among my skimming swallows, 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmer under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river; 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



TO VIOLETS. 

Welcome, maids of honor. 

You do bring 

In the Spring, 
And wait upon her. 

She has virgins many. 

Fresh and fair ; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

Y' are the Maiden Posies, 

And so graced, 

To be placed, 
'Fore damask roses. 

Yet though thus respected, 
4 By and by 
Ye do lie. 
Poor girls, neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 



TO BLOSSOMS. 

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do ye fall so fast.' 

Your date is not so past 
But you may stay yet here awhile 

To blush and gently smile, 
And go at last. 

What! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight, 
And so to bid good-night.' 

'T is pity Nature brought ye forth, 
Merely to show your worth, 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their end, though ne'er so brave-, 
And, after they have shown their pride 
Like you awhile, they glide. 
Into the grave. 

Robert Herrick. 



522 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



MARY ANN. 

She is right weary of her days, 

Her long lone daj's of dusty kneeling; 
■ And yet " The thoughts o' you," she says, 
" Has took away rny tired feeling. 

" For when I've done the room," she says, 
"And cleaned it all from floor to ceiling, 

A-leaning on my broom," she says, 
" I do have such a tired feeling! " 

But he, the other laborer. 

Has left behind his moorland shieling, 
And comes at last to comfort her, 

Because he knows her "tired feeling." 

" I know'd you was to come," she says, 
"For why.'' I see'd the swallows wheel- 
ing; 

And that's a sign to me, I says, 

" I soon shall lose my tired feeling. 

" I'll ax my Misses leave, I says ; 

I canna work; my heart wants healing: 
She gave it me, and smiles and says, 

' Well thafll cure your tired feeling.' 

" And so it will. For days and days 
I'm strong again r.nd fit for kneeling; 

The thoughts o' seeing you," she says, 
" Has took away my tired feeling." 

Arthur J. Munby. 



"I KNOW A LITTLE GARDEN 
CLOSE." 

I know a little garden close 
Set thick with lily and red rose, 
Where I would wander if I might 
From dewy morn till dewy night 
And have one with me wandering. 

And though within it no liirds sing, 
And though no pillared house is there. 
And thougn the apple boughs are bare 
Of fruit and blossom, would to God 
Her feet upon the green grass trod. 
And I beheld them as before. 



There comes a murmur from the shore 
And in the place two fair streams are, 
Drawn from the purple hills afar 
Drawn down unto the restless sea; 
The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, 
The shore no ship has ever seen, 
Still beaten by the billows green. 
Whose munnur comes unceasingly 
Unto the place for which I crv. 

For which I cry both da^' and night 
For which I let slip all delight, 
That maketh me both deaf and blind, 
Careless to win, unskilled to find. 
And quick to lose what all men seek. 

Yet tottering as I am and weak. 
Still have I left a little breath 
To seek within the jaws of death 
An entrance to that happy place, 
To seek the unforgotten tace 
Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me 
Anigh the murmuring of the sea. 

William Morris. 



ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF 
THE DEEP. 

Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
I lay me do'.vn in peace to sleep; 
Secure I rest upon the wave, 
For thou, O Lord ! hast power to save. 

I know thou wilt not slight my call, 
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall; 
And calin and peaceful is my sleep, 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

And such the trust that still were mine, 
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, 
Or though the tempest's fiery breath 
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death! 

In ocean's caves still safe with Thee, 
The germ of immortality ; 
And calm and peaceful is my sleep. 
Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 

Emma Willard. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



533 



HALF-WAY IN LOVE. 

You have come, then; how very clever! 

I thought jou would scarcely try; 
I was doubtful myself — however, 

You hav3 come, and so have L 

How cool it is here, and prettv ! 

You are vexed; I'm afraid I'm late; 
You've been waiting — O what a pity ! 

And it's almost half past eight. 

So it is; 1 can hear it striking 

Out there in the gray church tower 

Why, I wonder at your liking 
To wait for me half an hour! 

I am sorry ; what have you been doing 
All the while down here by the pool? 

Do you hear that wild dove cooing? 
How pleasant here, and cool! 

How that elder piles and masses 
Her great blooms snowy -sweet; 

Do you see through the serried grasses 
The forget-me-nots ?t your feet? 

And the fringe of flags that encloses 
The water; and how the place 

Is alive with pink dog-roses. 
Soft-colored like your face? 

You like them? Shall I pick one 
For a badge and coin of June? 

They are lovely, but they prick one. 
And they always fade so soon. 

Here's your rose! I think love like this 
That buds between two sighs. 

And flowers between two kisses, 
And when it's gathered dies. 

It were surely a grievous thing, love, 
That love should fade in one's sight; 

It were better, surely, to fling love 
Off while its bloom is bright. 



The frail life wjll not linger — 

Best throw the rose away ; 
Though the thorns, having scratched one's 
finger, 

Will hurt for half a day. 

What! you'd rather keep it, and see it 

Fade and its petals fall? 
If you will, Avhy, amen — so be it! 

You may be right, after all. 

Anonymous. 



PHTLLIDA AND CORIDON. 

In the merrj' month of May, 

In a morn by break of day. 
Forth I walked by the woodside. 

When as May was in his pride. 
There I spied, all alone, 

Phillida and Coridon. 

Much ado there was, God wot! 

He would love, and she would not; 
She said, " never man was true ;" 

He said, " none was false to you ;" 
He said, he had loved her long; 

She said, " Love shall have no wrong.'* 

Coridon would kiss her then ; 

She said, " maids must kiss no men 
Till they did it for good and all;'' 

Then she made the shepherd call 
All the heavens to witness truth, 

" Never loved a truer youth!" 

Thus, with many a pretty oath. 

Yea and nay, and faith and troth. 

Such as silly shepherds use 

When they will not love abuse, 

Love, which had been long deluded, 

Was with kisses sweet concluded ; 
And Phillida, with garlands gay, 

Was made the Lady of the May. 

Nicholas Breton. 



S24 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



A RHYME OF ONE. 

You sleep upon jour mother's breast, 

Your race begun, 
A welcome, long a wished-tor guest, 

Whose age is One. 

A babj-boy, you wonder why 

You cannot run; 
You try. to talk — how hard you try! 

You're only One. 

Ere long you won't be such a dunce; 

You'll eat your bun. 
And fly your kite, like folk, who once 

Were only One. 

You'll rhyme and woo, and fight and joke. 

Perhaps you'll pun; 
Such feats are never done by folk 

Before they're One. 

Some day, too, you may have your joy. 

And envy none; 
Yes, you, yourself, may own a boy 

Who isn't One. 

He'll dance, and laugh, and crow, he'll do 

As you have done; 
[You crown a happy home, tho' you 

Are only Onej. 

But when he's grown shall you be here 

To share his fun, 
And talk of days when he (the dear!) 

Was hardly one.'' 

Dear child, 'tis your poor lot to be 

My little son; 
I'm glad, though I am old, you see — 

While you are On^. 

Anonymous. 



THE LARK. 

Bird of the wilderness. 
Blithesome and cumberless. 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! 
Emblem of liappiness. 



Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
Oh to abide in the desert with thee! 

Wild is thy lay and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud ; 
Love gives it energy — love gave it birth ! 

Where, on thy dewy wing — 

Where art thou journeying.'' 
Thy lay is in heaven — thy love is on earth. 

O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
O'er moor andmountain green, 

O'er the red*streamer that heralds the day ; 
Over the cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim, 

Musical cherub, soar, singing away! 

Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms. 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! 
Emblem of happiness. 
Blest is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh to abide in the desert with thee! 

James Hogg. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And ail that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in iier aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling 
place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow. 

So soft, so calm yet eloquent 
The smiles that win, the tints tliat glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent! 

Lord Byron. 



OF POETET AND SONG. 



535 



THE OLD DAME'S PRAYER. 

Ah, dark were the days of winter 

On the Pomeranian strand; 
The snow fell fast in the wintry blast, 

And foes were in tlie land. 

It was in a humble cottage. 

Apart from the village street, 
An old dame spun by the fire and sung, 

And the words were truthful and sweet; 

•*' And what though the foe assail us, 

We need not faint nor fear, 
For God in their need can build with speed 

A wall rovmd His people dear." 

A step is heard in the doorway; 

'Tis the widow's only son. 
Who with moody brow is entering now. 

When his long day's toil is done. 

" Mother, the Cossacks are on us, 

The cruel and ruthless foe; 
With the beat of drum I heard them con.e 

Through the wind and the driving snow . 

^' Plunder and rapine and murder 

Go with them hand in hand. 
The psalms that you sing will no succor 
bring; 

God has forsaken the land." 

" Fear not, my son," said the mother. 

" For God, who reigneth on high. 
Can scatter this host like leaves in frost. 

And save us from danger nigh. 

"Nor dread, although they be coming 
With drum and with trumpet sound : 

The Lord at our need can build with speed 
A wall to compass us round." 

" Fond is the fancy, my mother; 

For wonders are done no more. 
Ere an hour can pass they'll lie here, alas! 

To plunder our little store." 



" Build, Lord, a rampart around us; 

Stretch forth Thy mighty arm!" 
Was all that she said, as she knelt and 
prayed — 

"Shield, Lord, and save us from harm!" 

By the glare of the enemy's trumpets. 

Borne on the wintry blast. 
By the roll of the drum, she knew they had 
come, 
And the tramp of their feet as they 
passed. 

Thick and fast fell the snow flakes. 

Wild blew the wintry blast; 
Dark was the night — not a star shed its 
light- 

And slowly tiie hours went past. 

Sounds were heard on the midnight. 

Wailing of bitter woe. 
That told in their rage, nor childhood nor 
age 

Were spared by the pitiless foe. 

" Build, Lord, a rampart around us!'' 

Meekly the mother prayed. 
And the drifting snow on the fields below 

A wall round the cottage made. 
And ere night was done it was clear to the 
son 

That the hand of the Lord was there. 

Noon came. The sun at the dawning 

Shone, but they saw him not; 
And no foeman's eye through the snow- 
drifts high 

Had lit on their tiny cot. 

Later, when winter was over. 

The Cossacks gone from the land. 

No cot was seen like the dame's, I ween, 
On the Pomeranian strand. 

For the peace of God was upon it. 
No longer with moody brow 



526 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Did the ^vidow's son, when his work was 


I knew you when you came — your look, 


done, 


your tone; 


Enter the cottage now. 


I knew those eyes whose glance made 




Hope delirious — 


He had learned the faith of his mother; 


Those haunting eyes, so long a dream — 


He knew that the Father's arm 


my own. 


Could build at their need a wall with speed 




To shelter His people from harm. 


It was no frenzy of a brain sick fever. 


M. E. Traquair. 


No phantom from a sickly fancy thrown 
Which bade me to your' sovereign claim 




deliver 




My heart — my soul — my being — all 


AFFINITY. 


your own. 


You came to me by way? that love has 


Ah, me ! the Past is one strange allegory, 


shown you, 


By sibyl years disclosed as they have 


Emerging radiant from the vast un- 


flown, 


known; 


Whose science now I read in passing story, 


You came to me, and I did not disown you. 


Our blended loves tell with each throb — 


But with wild kisses clasped you for my 


my own. 


own. 






In spiced Arabian isles, far mystic ocean, 


You claimed me in the tumult where you 


From whence to us Sabsean airs have 


found me, 


flown — 


'Mid toil, and strife, and laughter — yet 


Our river bears us, rapt in sweet emotion, 


alone; 


Your mine in all, and I in all — your own. 


I felt the spell your presence threw around 




me — 


Yet whv, I know not, yearned my spirit to 


I knew you mine — you knew me for 


you. 


your own. 


Nor why for you it kept a vacant tl^rone; 




I only know it came, and that I knew you 


Dark were the shadows which my soul 


By Love's authentic token — for my own !; 


surrounded. 
And deep as night ere yet the stars had 


Anonymous. 


shown. 




But bright as dawn when morning first 
was sounded 


I WONDER. 


You gleamed on me, my morning star. 


I WONDER if ever a song was sung. 


my own. 


But the singer's heart sang sweeter.' 




I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung. 


As r>. proud city to some waste transplanted 


But the thought surpassed the meter.? 


By magic, and for ages still as stone. 


I wonder if ever the sculptor wrought 


My spirit lay in woeful trance enchanted 


Till the cold stone echoed his inmost 


Till waked by you, who sought me for 


thought.' 


3'our own. 


Or if ever a painter, with light and shade. 




The dream of his inmost soul betrayed.' 


Yet o'er that trance swept prophecies mys- 




terious. 


Anonymous. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



527 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE 
LUTE. 

MENAPHON AND AMETHU3. 

Menaphon. Passing from Italy to 
Greece, the tales 
"Which poets of an elder time have feigned 
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me 
Desire of visiting that paradise. 
To Thessaly I came; and living private, 
Without acquaintance of more sweet com- 
panions 
Tlian th.e old inmates to my love, my 

thoughts, 
I dav by day frequented silent groves, 
And solitary walks. One morning early 
This accident encountered me: I heard 
The sweetest and most ravishing conten- 
tion, 
That art and nature ever were at strife in. 
Amethus. I cannot yet conceive what 
you infer 
By art and nature. 

Men. I shaij soon resolve you 
A sound of music touched mine ears, or 

rather 
Indeed, entranced my soul : As I stole 

. nearer. 
Invited by the meJody, I saw 
This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his 

lute. 
With strains of strange variety and har- 
mony. 
Proclaiming, as it seemed, so bold a chal- 
lenge 
To the clear choristers of the woods, the 

birds, 
That, as they flocked about him, all stood 

silent. 
Wondering at what they heard. I won- 
dered too. 
Amet. And so do I; good! on. 
Men. a nightingale, 
Nature's best skilled musician, undertakes 
The challenge, and for every several strain 
The well-shaped youth could touch, she 
sung her own; 



He could not run division with more art 
Upon his quaking instrument, than she. 
The nightingale, did with her various notes 
Reply to; for a voice, and for a sound, 
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe 
That such they were, than hope to hear 
again. 
Amet. How did the rivals part.' 
Men. You term them rightly; 
For they were rivals, and their mistress, 

Harmony. 
Some time thus spent, the young man grew 

at last 
Into a pretty anger, that a bird 
Whom art had never taught cliflis, moods, 

or notes, 
Should vie with him for mastery, whose 

study 
Had busied many hours to perfect practice: 
To end the controversy, in a rapture 
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly. 
So many voluntaries, and so quick, 
That there was curiosity and cunning. 
Concord in discord, lines of diftering method 
Meeting in one full centre of delight. 
A met. New for the bird. 
Men. The bird, ordained to be 
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate 
These several sounds: which, when her 

warbling throat 
Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on 

his lute. 
And brake her heart! It was the quaint- 
est sadness, 
To see the conqueror upon her hearse. 
To weep a funeral elegy of tears; 
That trust me, my Amethus, I could chide 
My own unmanly weaknesss, that made me 
A fellow-mourner with him. 
Amet. I believe thee. 
Men. He looked upon the trophies of 

his art. 
Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then 

sighed and cried : 
'Alas poor creature! 1 will soon revenge 
This cruelty upon the author of it: 
Henceforth, this lute, guilty of innocent 

blood. 



528 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



Shall never more betray a harmless peace 
To an untimely end: and in that sorrow, 
As he was pashing it against a tree, 
I suddenly stepped in. 

A MET. Thou hast discoursed 
A truth of mirth and pity. 

John Ford 

TAKE TIME FOR LOVE. 

What is the use of this impetuous haste.' 
The end is certain, let us take our time, 
And hoard the vital forces that we waste 
Before our day has reached its golden 
prime. 

"What is the use of rushing with spent 

breath 
After old age, its furrows, its white hair.' 
Why need we hurry so to welcome Death.' 
Or go half-way, with hands stretched out to 

Care.' 

There is no use, dear heart; if we but wait 
All things will find us. Let us pause, I 

say: 
We cannot go beyond the silent gate 
That lies a short day's journey down the 

way. 

Let us take our time in Youth's fair bow- 
ers — 

The summer season is so brief at best, 

Let us look on the stars, and pluck the 
flowers — 

And, when our feet grow weary, let us rest. 

Let us take time for love and its delight; 
It is tlie one sweet thing that pays for all 
The bitterness of life, for sorrows blight. 
For pain's despair, and death's funereal pall. 

In that lost era when the world was new 

Love was men's first pursuit and life's ex- 
cuse. 

Now has that time come back to me and 
you : 

Why should we seek for more.' What is 
the use.' 

Ella Wheeler. 



PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew 

Summon Clan-Conuil! 
Come away, come away — 

Hark to the summons! 
Come in your war array. 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky ; 
The war pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one; 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter; 
Leave the corpse uninterred, 

The bride at the altar; 
Leave the deer, leave the steer. 

Leave nets and barges; 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come when 

Forests are rended 
Come as the waves come when 

Navies are stranded ! 
Faster come, faster come. 

Faster and faster*- 
Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 

Tenant and master! 

Fast they come, fast they come- 

See how they gather! 
Wide waves the eagle plume. 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades. 

Forward each man set! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Kneel for the onset! 

Sir Walter Scott. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



529 



"DIEM PERDIDI." 

Through the dim chambers of my secret 
soul 

A strange ghost wanders; 
As one \\\\o has o'er all it sees control, 

It walks and ponders. 

Sometimes where gay and subtle fancies 
fare 

It shows its features, 
And straight the bright things vanish in 
thin air — 

Elusive creatures! 

Sometimes it fills my trembling heart with 
dread 

Of the to-morrow, 
To see the wraith of what I thought was 
dead 

Its likeness borrow. 

And yet, and jet I cannot bid it go 

From me for ever; 
It were so sad if I, with all its woe, 

Could see it never. 

For it was once filled up with a delight, 

A passing pleasure, 
Which, though in truth it left my soul less 
white. 

Was mine to treasure. 

So just to give this formless thing a name 

Must bring me sadness. 
Since it no more can know Life's glowing 
flame 

And fragrant gladness. 

For 't is the spirit of my yesterday 

That restless wanders. 
And, spite of all the prayers my lips can 
say. 

In silence ponders. 

Of yesterday, o'er which all men repine 
With bitter grieving, 



Because it took away some joy divine, 
Some firm believing. 

Still yesterday — a loss without an end 

Each day another, 
That leaves behind one more frail hope to 
tend, 

Of grief to smother. 

But sometimes in a recompense of pain 

And vain endeavor. 
Our sweetest yesterdays we shall regain 

To keep forever. 

James Berry Bensel. 



NOT OURS THE VOWS. 

Not ours the vows of such as plight 
Their troth in sunny weather, 

While leaves are green, and skies are 
bright. 
To walk on flowers together. 

But we have looked as those who tread 

The thorny path of sorrow, 
With clouds above, and cause to dread 

Yet deeper gloom tomorrow. 

That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
Have drawn our spirits nearer; 

And rendered us, by sorrow's ties. 
Each to the other dearer. 

Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
With mirth and joy may perish; 

That to which darker hours gave birth 
Still more and more we cherish. 

It looks beyond the clouds of time, 

And through death's shadowy portal ; 

Made by adversity sublime. 

By faith and hope immortal. 

Bernard Barton. 



IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY 
I.OVE. 

If thou wert by my side, my lo^'e, 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
Listening the nightingale! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side. 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray. 

When, on our deck reclined. 
In careless ease my limbs I lay 

And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when b}' Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 

The lingering noon to cheer. 
But miss thy kind, approving eye. 

Thy meek, attentive ear. 

But when at morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 

My coui se be onward still, 
O'er broad Hindostaii's sultry meads, 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, 

Nor mild Malwah detain; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they 
say, 
Across the dark blue sea; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
As then shall meet in thee ! 

Reginald Heber. 



THE THRONE OF LOVE. 

The throne of Love is in my lady's eves, 
Whence everything she looks on is en- 

no])led; 
On her all eyes are turned, where'er she 

moves, 
And his heart palpitates whom she salutes. 
So that, with countenance cast down and 

pale, 
Conscious un worthiness his sighs express; 
Anger and pride before her presence fly. 
Oh, aid me, gentle dames, to do her honor! 
All sweetness springs, and every humble 

thought. 
Within the heart of him who hears her 

speak ; 
And happy may be deemed who once hath 

seen her. 
What she appears when she doth gently 

smile 
Tongue cannot tell nor memory i-etain, — 
So beauteous is the miracle and new! 

Gabriel Dante. 



THE MIGHT OF ONE FAIR FACE. 

The might of one fair face sublimes my 

love, 
For it hath weaned my heart from low de- 
sires; 
Nor death I need, nor purgatorial fires; 
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above. 
Instructs me in the bliss that saints ap- 
prove ; 
For oh, how good, how beautiful must be 
The God that made so good a thing as 

thee. 
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove! 
Forgive me if I cannot turn away 
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly 

heaven. 
For they are guiding stars benignly given 
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way ; 
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
I live and love in God's peculiar light. 

Michael Angelo. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



531 



" WAKE NOW, MY LOVE AWAKE." 

FROM THE EPITHALAMIUM. 

Wake now, mj love, awake; for it is time; 
The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed. 
All readv to her silver coach to climb; 
And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious 

head. 
Hark! how the cheerful birds do chant 

their lays, 
And carol of Love's praise. 
The merrv lark her matins sings aloft; 
The thrush replies; the mavis descant 

pla}s; 
The ouzel shrills; the ruddock w-arbles 

soft; 
So goodlv all agree; with sweet consent. 
To this day's merriment. 
Ah! my dear love! why do you sleep thus 

long. 
When meeter were that thou should'st now 

awake, 
T' await the coming of your joyous mate, 
And hearken to the birds' love-learned 

song. 
The dewy leaves among! 
For they of joy and pleasance to you sing, 
That all the woods them answer, and their 

echo ring. 

My love is now awake out of her dream. 
And her fair eyes, like stars that dimmed 

were 
With da?-ksome cloud, now shew their 

goodly beams 
More bright than Hesperus his head doth 

rear. 
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of de- 

light. 
Help quickly her to dight. 
But first come, ye fair Hours, which were 

begot 
In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and 

Night; 
Which do the seasons of the year allot. 
And all, that ever in this world is fair, 
Do make and still repair : 



And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian 

Queen, 
The which do still adorn her beauty's pride 
Help to adorn thy beautifuUest bride; 
And, as ye her array, still throw between 
Some graces to be seen ; 
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing, 
The W'hile the woods shall answer, and 

your echo ring. 

Now is my love all ready forth to come; 

Let all the virgins therefore well await; 

And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her 
groom. 

Prepare yourselves, for he is coming 
straight. 

Set all your things in seemly good array, 

Fit for so joyful day : 

The joyfullest day that ever sun did see. 

Fair Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray, 

And let thy lifeful heat not fervent be, 

For fear of burning her sunshiny face, 

Her beauty to disgrace. 

O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse! 

If ever I did honor Thee aright. 

Or sing the thing that might Thy mind de- 
light. 

Do not Thy servant's simple boon refuse. 

But let this day, let this one day be mine; 

Let all the rest be thine. 

Then I thy sovereign praises loud will 

sing,, 
That all the woods shall answer, and their 
echo ring. 

Lo! where she comes along with portly 

pace. 
Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the east, 
Arising forth to run her mighty race, 
Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best. 
So well it her beseems, that ye would 

ween 
Some angel she had been. 
Her long loose yellow locks, like golden 

wire. 
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers 

atween, 



Do like a golden mantle her attire; 
And being crowned with a garland green, 
Seem like some maiden queen, 
Her modest eves, abashed to behold 
So many gazers as on her do stare, 
Upon the lowly ground affixed are; 
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold, 
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud, 
So far from being proud. 
Natheless do ye still loud her praises sing, 
That all the woods may answer, and their 
echo ring. 

Edmund Spenser. 



A VALENTINE. 

When evening spreads her mantle wide. 

And calls each weary laborer home, 
I turn from care and toil aside, 
And bid my roving fancies roam, 

My loved one's matchless form I see; 
I think of her who thinks of me. 

Though time should keep us long apart. 
And stormy seas should roll between. 
Full well I know that faithful heart, 

Though distant far, unchanged has been. 
Regardless of the raging sea, 
X think of her who thinks of me. 

Should sleep proclaim her gentle power. 

And bid my wandering fancies rest, 
E'en at the silent midnight hour 

Her smile is seen, her hand is pressed. 
For in the chains of slumber free, 
I dream of her who dreams of me. 

The busy, changing world around 

Holds many a gem of beauty rare. 
And captive hearts are daily bound 
In fetters by the conquering fair. 
But this alike unmoved I see — 
I love but her who loves but me. 



Should He wlio rules in Heaven above 
Be pleased to spare my worthless life, 
No earthly cause shall change my love — 
No other maid shall be my wife. 
Each plighted vow shall honored be— 
live for her who lives for me. 

And should the same Almighty power 

In wisdom call me hence away. 
Then shall that dark and trying hour 
Bear witness to the words I say — 
My latest prayer on earth shall be 
A prayer for her who prays for me. 

Dr. a. E. Jamieson. 



TREASURES AT HOME. 

Ye tradeful merchants, that with weary 

toil 
Do seek most precious things to make 

your gain. 
And both the Indies of their treasure spoil^ 
What needeth you to seek so far in vain: 

For lo! my love doth in herself contain 
All this world's riches that may far be 

found! 
If sapphires, lo! her eyes be sapphires 

plain ; 
If rubies, lo! her lips be rubies sound" 

If pearls, her teeth be pearls, both pure an'^ 

round; 
If ivory, her forehead ivory ween; 
If gold, her locks are finest gold on gi-ound; 
If silver, her fair hands are silver sheen; 
But that which fairest is, but few behold, — 
Her mind, adorned with virtues manifold! 

Edmund Spenser. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



533 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 

GARDEN SCENE. 

Romeo. He jests at scars that never felt 
a wound. — 
But, soft! what light through yonder win- 
dow breaks! 
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! — 
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, 
Who is already sick and pale with grief. 
That thou her maid art far more fair than 

she; 
Be not her maid, since she is envious; 
Her vestal livery is but sick and green. 
And none but fools do wear it; cast it oft". — 
It is my lady; Oh! it is my love; 

that she knew she were! — 

She speaks, yet she says nothing. What 

of that.? 
Her eye discourses; I will answer it. — 

1 am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks; 
Two of the fairest stars of all the heaven, 
Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
To twinkle in their sphei-es till they re- 
turn. 

What if her eyes were there, they in her 

head ? 
The brightness of her cheek would shame 

those stars, 
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in 

heaven 
Would through the airy region stream so 

bright, 
The birds would sing, and think it were not 

night. 
See, how she leans her cheek upon her 

hand! 
O that I were a glove upon that hand. 
That I might touch that cheek ! 
Juliet. Ah me. 
Rom. She speaks. 
Oh, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
As glorious to this sight, being o'er my 

head. 
As is a winged messenger of heaven 
Unto the white upturned wond'ring eyes 
Of mortals, that foil back to gaze on him, 



When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art 
thou Romeo? 
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; 
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 

Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak 

at this.? 
Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ; 
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague, 
What's Montague.? It is nor hand nor foot. 
Nor arm, nor face — nor any other part 
Belonging to a man. O, be some other 

name! 
What's in a name.? That which we call a 

rose, 
By any other name would smell as sweet. 
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo 

called. 
Retain that dear perfection which he owes. 
Without that title. Romeo, doft" thy name ; 
And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
Take all myself; 

Rom. I take thee at thy word : 
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptised, 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo. 
Jul. Whatman art thou, that thus, be- 
screened in night, 
So stumblest on my counsel.? 

RoM. By a name 
I know not how to tell thee who I am : 
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,. 
Because it is an enemy to thee. 
Had I it written I would tear the word. 
Jul. My ears have not yet drank a hun- 
dred words 
Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the 

sound. 
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague.? 
RoM. Neither, fair saint, if either thee 

dislike. 
Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and 
wherefore.? 
The orchard walls are high, and hard to 

climb; 
And the place death, considering who thou 
art, 



534 ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 


If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 


If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully; 


Rom. With love's light wings did I o'er- 


Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly w-on, 


perch these walls, 


I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay 


For stony limits cannot hold love out; 


iSo thou wilt woo: but, else, not for the 


And what love can do, that dares love at- 


world. 


tempt: 


In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, 


Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. 


And therefore thou may'st think my 'hav- 


Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder 


ior light; 


thee. 


But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more 


Rom. Alack! there lies more peril in 


true 


thine eyes 


Than those that have more coving to be 


Than twenty of their swords; look thou 


strange. 


sweet. 


I should have been more strange, I must 


And I am proof against their enmity. 


confess. 


Jul. I would not for the world they saw 


But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware, 


thee here. 


My true love's passion ; therefore pardon me. 


Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me 


And not impute this yielding to light love, 


from their eyes ; 


Which the dark night hath so discovered. 


And but thou love me, let them find me 


Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I 


here ; 


swear, 


My life were better ended by their hate. 


That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops. 


Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. 


Jul. O swear not by the moon, the in- 


Jul. By whose direction found'st thou 


constant moon, 


out this place.'' 


That monthly changes in her circled orb ; 


Rom. By love, that first did prompt me 


Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 


to inquire: 


Rom. What shall I swear by.? 


He lent me covmsel, and I lent him eyes. 


Jul. Do not swear at all; 


I am no pilot; yet wert thou as far 


Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, 


As that vast shore washed with the farthest 


Which is the God of my idolatry, 


sea, 


And I'll believe thee. 


I would adventure for such merchandise. 


Rom. If my heart's dear love — 


Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is 


Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy 


on my face, 


. in thee. 


Else would a maiden blush bepaint my 


I have no joy of this contract to-night; 


cheek 


It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden; 


For that which thou hast heard me speak 


Too like the lightning, which doth cease to 


to night. 


be, 


Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain 


Ere one can say. It lightens! Sweet, good 


deny 


night! 


What I have spoke — but farewell compli- 


This bud of love, by summer's ripening 


ment! 


breath. 


Dost thou love me.' I know thou wilt say 


May prove a beauteous flower, when next 


—Ay! 


we meet. 


And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou 


Good-night, good-night — as sweet repose 


swear'st, 


and rest 


Thou may'st prove false: at lovers' per- 


Come to thy heart, as that within my 


juries, 


breast! 


They say, Jove laughs. O, gentle Romeo ! 


William Shakspeare. 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



535 



DIONYSIUS THE PEDAGOGUE. 

PRISON OF LA FORCE, 1829. 

Kick'd out, in scorn, from Syracuse, 

King Dionjsius stray'd 
To Corinth, where he fain must choose 

'Twixt starving and a trade. 
On that of schoohnaster he fix'd. 
Whereby, with tyranny unmix'd, 

To pow'r he still could cling, 
Tax and oppress to heart's content. 
History proves that banishment 

Could never change a king. 

He claim'd from ev'ry urchin's lunch 

(On pain of fearful thwacks) 
Of honey, nuts, and raisin bunch, 

Three-fourths, by way of tax. 
" There, boys, in grateful homage fall," 
He cried, "you know I've right to all, 

Yet do the gen'rous thing. 
Here! kiss our hands; we give consent." 
History proves that banishment 

Could never change a king. 

A cunning dunce, upon his slate, 

Finish'd an ill-spelt scrawl, 
With " Perish those, O monarch great, 

Who, impious, caus'd thy fall!" 
This wins a prize; and, " Ah, my son! 
A sceptre's weight is much for one: 

Aid me in governing. 
Take thou my rod — and don't relent." 
History proves that banishment 

Could never change a king. 

Another sneak came whisp'ringly, — 

"A boy there writing, lo! 
Some satire on your majesty, 

No doubt, — they're laughing so!" 
Swift with his cane the tyrant flew, 
Thutnp'd the accus'd to black and blue. 

And thus addressed the ring: 
" Henceforth all writing I prevent!" 
History proves that banishment 

Could never change a king. 



He dreamt of strange conspiracies 

Against his sovereign sway ; 
One day he saw his urchin's teaze 

Two passers by the way. 
" Dear strangers, pray walk in," he cried. 
" Avenge my wrongs on ev'ry hide. 

Thrash till they writhe and sing. 
'Tis for their good — you've our consent." 
History proves that banishment 

Could never change a king. 

Parents and friends at length outlash'd 

In one indignant cry; 
Their boys, they vowed, were overlhrashed 

Again must Dion fly. 
Yet driven forth from home and school, 
To tax, mislead, oppress and rule, 

He saw a third chance spring; 
Into the priest-line Dion went. 
History proves that banishment 

Could never change a king. 

De Beranger. 



THANKSGIVING. 

Lord, for the erring thought 
Not into evil wrought: 
Lord, for the wicked will 
Betrayed and baffled still : 
For the heart from itself kept, 
Our thanksgiving accept. 

For ignorant nopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer : 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement: 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 

William D. Howells. 



536 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



HALF WAY. 

Slow is the painful ascent up to fame, 
And few are the feet that clamber to tb.e 

height ; 
Ambitious throngs press at the mountain's 

base, 
Filled with the love of glor}' ; and the path 
That shines above tliem in the morning 

light 
Seems beautiful, nor difficult to scale. 



But further on, a lifile higher up. 

The easy slope grows broken, and so steep 

That careless feet slip back and lose their 

huld, 
And dizzy brains reel downward and are 

lost; 
And those who press on to the pausing 

place, 
A little higher, stand with weary limbs 
And aching hearts, just near enough to 

hear 
The sneers and hisses of the crowd below — 
The angry crowd that cannot climb at all. 
Or, having climbed, has fallen back again. 

Half way they stand upon the mountain 

side. 
Where cold winds blow and loose rocks 

crumble down, 
And strange birds beat them with their 

wide, wild wings; 
No longer of the hurrying throng beneath, 
Not yet of that immortal few above, 
How lonely and how all alone are they I 



Be not afraid, O toilers up the height! 
The gods are very near, though out of sight ; 
They reach out helpful hands and say, 

" come higher." 
All earnest souls must climb if they aspire. 

Ella Wheeled 



AS STARS LOOK ON THE SEA. 

When stars are in the quiet skies 

Then most I pine for thee; 

Bend on me then thy tender eyes. 

As stars look on the sea — 

For thoughts, like waves that glide by 

night, 
Are stillest w^hen they shine; 
xMine earthly love lies hushed in light. 
Beneath the heaven of thine. 

There is an hour when angels keep 

Familiar watch o'er men; 

When coarser souls are wrap'd in sleep — 

Sweet spirit meet me then. 

There is an hour when holy dreams. 

Through slumber, fairest glide, 

And in that mystic hour it seems 

Thou should'st be by my side. 

The thoughts of thee too sacred are 
For daylight's common dream; 
I can but know thee as my star. 
My angel, and my dream. 
When stars are in the quiet skies, 
Then most I pine for thee ; 
Bend on me then thy tender eyes. 
As stars look on the sea. 

E. L. BULWER. 



A DEATH-BED. 

Her suffering ended with the day; 

Yet lived she at its close. 
And breathed the long, long night away, 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun, in all his state. 

Illumed the eastern skies. 
She passed through glory's morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise! 

James Aldrich. 



OF POETR7' AND SONG. 



537 



A DROP OF DEW. 

See how the orient dew 
Shed from the bosom of the morn 

Into tlie blowing roses, 
Yet careless of its mansion new, 
For the clear region where 'twas born. 

Round in itself encloses; 
And in its little globe's extent 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple flower does slight, 

Scarce touching where it lies! 
But, gazing back upon the skies, 
Shines with a mournful light, 
Like its own tear. 
Because so long divided from the sphere. 
Restless it rolls and insecure. 
Trembling, lest it grow impure; 
Till the warm sun pities its pain 
And to the skies exhales it back aga 

So the soul, that drop, that ray 
Of the clear fountain of eternal day. 
Could it within the human flower be seen, 
Remembering still its former height 
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms 

green. 
And, recollecting its own light. 
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, ex- 
press 
The greater heaven in a heaven less. 
In how coy a figure wound, 
Every way it turns away ; 
So the world excluding round, 

Yet receiving in the day; 
Dark beneath, but bright above; 
Here disdaining, there in love. 
How loose and easy hence to go; 
How girt and ready to ascend; 
Moving but on a point below. 
It all about does upwards bend. 
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil. 
White and entire, although congeal'd and 

chill; 
Congeal'd on earth; but does, dissolving, 

nn 
Into the glories of th' almighty sun. 

Andrew Marvell. 



THE MISSIONARY'S WIFE'S 
FAREWELL. 

We part on this green islet, love, 

Thou for the eastern main, 
I for the setting sun, love. 

Ah, when to meet again. 

My heart is sad for thee, love. 

For lone thy way will be; 
And oft thy tears will fall, love. 

For thy children and tor me. 

The music of thy daughter's voice 
Thou'lt miss tor many a year, 

And the merry shout of thine elder boys 
Thou'lt list in vain to hear. 

When we knelt to see our Henry die, 
And heard his last, faint moan. 

Each wiped the tear from other's eye; 
Now each muse weep alone. 

My tears fall fast for thee, love: 

How can I sav farewell! 
But go; thy God be with thee, love, 

Thy heart's deep grief to quell. 

Yet my spirit clings to thine, love; 

Thy soul remains with me, 
And oft we'll hold communion sweet, 

O'er the dark and distant sea. 

And who can paint our mutual joy, 
When, all our wanderings o'er. 

We both shall clasp our infants three, 
At home, on Burmah's shore! 

But higher shall our raptures glow, 

On yon celestial plain. 
When the lov'd and parted here below 

Meet, ne'er to part again. 

Then gird thine armor on, love, 

Nor faint thou bv the wav, 
Till Boodh shall fall, and Burmah's sons 

Sliall own Messiah's sway. 

Mrs. Adoxir.\m Judson. 



538 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THERE COMES A GALLEY 
SAILING 

There comes a gallej sailing 
With amplest cargo stored; 

It bears God's Son most loving, 
The Lord's Eternal Word. 

That galley, calmly floating, 
Bears freight of priceless cost; 

Love is the sail that wafts it, 
Its mast the Holy Ghost. 

The earth now holds the anchor, 
The ship to land hath won ; 

God's Word our flesh hath taken. 
To mankind comes the Son. 

In Bethlehem an infant, 

Born in a manger-stall, 
He gives Himself to save us; 

Then praise Him, one and all. 

And whoso seeks that Infant, 

In loving clasp to hold. 
Must first with Him bear anguish. 

And sorrows manifold. 

And then with Jesus dying. 

Again with Jesus rise, 
An heir of life eternal. 

Where Jesus gives the prize. 

John Tauler. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEET- 
ING SHOW. 

This world is all a fleeting show 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, — 

There's nothing true but Heaven? 

And false the light on glory's plume, 
As fading hues of even; 



And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's 

bloom. 
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — 
There's nothing bright but Heaven! 

Poor wanderers o'er a stormy sea, 

From wave to wave we're driven. 
And fancy's flash, and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way, — 
There's nothing calm but Heaven! 

Thomas Moore» 



ST. AGNES' EVE. 

Deep on the convent roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon ; 
My breath to heaven like vapor goes; 

May my soul follow soon ! 
The shadows of the convent towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord ; 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 

To yonder shining ground ; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round ; 
So shows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee; 
So in mine earthly house I am. 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far^ 

Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go ; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strews her lights below. 
And deepens on and up! the gate* 

Roll back, and far within 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



53& 



For me the heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The Sabbaths of Eternity, 

One Sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea — 

The Bridegroom with his bride! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE HUMAN SEASONS. 

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; 
There are four seasons in the mind of man ; 
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
Takes in all beauty in an easy span ; 
He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
Spring's honeyed cud of youthful thought 

he loves 
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
Is nearest unto heaven ; quiet coves 
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
He furleth close; contented so to look 
On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
He has his Winter, too, of pale misfeature, 
Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



John Keats. 



THE DOOR BETWEEN. 

I KNOW that it was my own hand that shut 
it. 
And locked it — but I threw away the 
key, 
And so the door can never more be opened 
That stands so grimly betwixt you and 
me. 

Though sometimes I have fancied that I 
heard you 
Pleading and knocking on the other side. 



I would not answer, for my heart was 
sullen. 
And made so cruel by my wounded 
pride. 
And there are hours when I have knelt 
beside it. 
Nigh to death for just one word from 
you; 
And you in turn were proud and would, 
not answer, 
For anything that I could say or do. 

And sometimes, when I lie 'twixt sleep 
and waking, 
I think the door swings back to let vou 
in, 
But when I spring to give you eager wel- 
come, 
I only meet the ghost of What Has 
Beenl 



And often in my sleep my heart is asking 
"Where is the key.'' Alas! Where is 
the key .'' " 
And I arise and vainly try to open 
The closed door that is 'twixt you and. 
me! 

Howard Glyndon. 



"GOOD MORNING." 

Life ! we've been long together, 
Through pleasant and through cloudy 

weather ; 
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; 
Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear ; 
Then steal away, give little warning, 

Choose thine own time; 
Say not " Good-Night," but in some bright- 
er clime 

Bid me " Good-Morning." 

Annie Letitia Barbauld. 



540 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOO 



THE ETERNAL YEARS. 

How shalt thou bear the Cross that now 

So dread a weight appears? 
Keep quietly to God, and think 

Upon the eternal years. 

Austerity is little help, 

Although it somewhat cheers; 
Thine oil of gladness is the thought 

Ot"the Eternal Years. 

Set hours and written rule are good 
Long prayer can lay our fears: 

But it is better calm for thee 
To count the Eternal Years. 

Rites are as balm unto the eyes, 

God's word unto the ears : 
But He will have thee rather brood 

Upon the Eternal Years. 

Fidl many things are good for souls 
In proper times and spheres; 

Thy present good is in the thought 
Of the Eternal Years. 

Thy self-upbraiding is a snare, 
Though meekness it appears; 

More humbling is it far for thee 
To face the Eternal Years. 

Brave quiet is the thing for thee. 
Chiding thy scrupulous fears ; 

Learn to be real, from the thought 
Of the Eternal Years. 

Bear gently, suffer like a child, 

Nor be ashamed of tears ; 
Kiss the sweet Cross, and in thy heart 

Sing of the Eternal Years. 

Thy Cross is quite enough for thee 

Though little it appears; 
For there is hid in it the weight 

Of the Eternal Years. 

And knowst thou not how bitterness 
An ailing spirit cheers.'' 



Thy medicine is the strengthening thought 
Of the Eternal Years. 

One Cross can sanctify a soul , 

Late saints and ancient seers 
Were what they were, because they mused 

Upon the Eternal Years. 

Pass not from flower to pretty flower; 

Time flies ; and judgment nears ; 
Go! make thy honey from the thought 

Of the Eternal Years. 

Death will have r.iinbows round it, seen 
Through calm contrition's tears. 

If tranquil hope but trims her lamp 
At the Eternal Years. 

Keep unconstrain'dly in this thought, 
Thy loves, hopes, smiles, and tears ; 

Such prison-house thine heart will make 
Free of the Eternal Years. 

A single practice long sustained 

A soul to God endears: 
This must be thine — to weigh the thought 

Of the Eternal Years. 

He practices all virtue weh, 

Who his own Cross reveres. 
And lives in the familiar thought 

Of the Eternal Years. 

Ti^REDERICK WiLLIAM FaBER. 



GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. 

It is not growing like a tree. 
In bulk, doth make man better be; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred 

year 
To fall at last a log, dry, bald and sere : 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night 
It was the plant and flower of light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see; 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

Ben Jonson. 



I 



OF POETRT AND SONG. 



541 



A LETTER TO MOTHER NATURE. 

" You dear old Mother Nature, I am writ- 
ing you a letter, 

To let you know you ought to fix up things 
a little better. 

The best of us will make mistakes — I 
thought perhaps if I 

Should tell you how you might improve, 
you would be glad to try. 

" I think you have forgotten, ma'am, that 
little girls and boys 

Are fond of dolls and tops and sleds and 
balls and other toys; 

Why didn't you — I wonder, now! — ^just 
take it in your head 

To have such things all growing in a love- 
ly garden bed.^ 

■"And then I should have planted (if it only 

had been me) 
Some vines with little pickles, and a great 

big cooky tree ; 
And trees, besides, with gum-drops and 

caramels and things; 
And lemonade should bubble up in all the 

little springs. 

" I'd like to have the coasting and the skat- 
ing in July, 

When old Jack Frost would never get a 
single chance to try 

To nip our cheeks and noses; and the 
Christmas trees should stand 

By dozens, loaded! — in the woods! — now 
wouldn't that be grand.'' 

<'Ah! what a world it would have been! 
How could you, madam make 

Such lots of bread and butter to so very lit- 
tle cake.? 

I'd have it just the other way and every 
one would see 

How very, very, very, very nice my was 
would be. 



" But, as I cannot do it, will you think of 

what I say — 
And please, ma'am, do begin and alter 

things this very day — 
And one thing more — on Saturdays don't 

send us any rain. 
Good-bye. If I should think of something 

else, I'll write again." 

Sydney Dayre. 



NINE TIMES ONE! 

My little son, my little son. 
You are nine years old to day ; 

And I've wondered and pondere^, again 
and again. 
For some wise kind words to say. 

Nine years ago, a little child 

You lay on your mother's breast; 

And we were glad and blythe that day, 
With a little bird in our nest. 

You opened wide your little eyes, 

And you lifted your sweet young voice; 

And there was light and music there, 
That made us both rejoice. 

Nine changeful years have quickly sped, 
Since our baby boy was given ; 

And we look in your face to day, my boy, 
And thank our Father in heaven. 

Nine happy years, my little inan, 

Amid a world of toys ; ■ 
Horses and waggons, ships and books, 

Have made your little joys. 

I take your hand in mine, my boy. 

My little man of nine; 
And pray that, that little head and heart, 

May be filled with grace divine. 

Elmo. 



542 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



HEART'S EASE. 

Of all the bonny buds that blow 
In bright or cloudy weather, 

Of all the flowers that come and go 

The whole twelve months together, 

This little purple pansy brings 

Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things. 

I had a little lover once 

Who used to give me posies ; 

His eyes were blue as hyacinths. 
His lips were red as roses, 

And everybody loved to praise 

His pretty looks and winsome ways. 

The girls that went to school with me 
Made little jealous speeches. 

Because he brought me loyally 

His biggest plums and peaches, 

And always at the door would wait 

To carry home my books and slate. 

" They couldn't see," with pout and fling, 

" The mighty fascination 
About that little snub nosed thing 

To win such admiration, 
A if there weren't a dozen girls 
With nicer eyes and longer curls." 

And this I know as well as they 
And never could see clearly 

Why more than Marion or May 
I should be loved so dearly ; 

So once I asked him why was this.' 

He only answered with a kiss. 

Until I teased him — "Tell me why.' — 
I want to know the reason," 

When from the garden bed close by 
(The pansies were in season) 

He plucked and gave a flower to me 

With sweet and simple gravity. 

"The garden is in bloom," he said, 
With lilies pale and slender. 

With roses and verbenas red. 

And fuschias' purple splendor. 



But over and above the rest, 

This little heart's ease suits me best." 

" Am I your little heart's-ease then?" 
I asked with blushing pleasure; 

He answered "Yes! and yes again — • 
Heart's-ease and dearest treasure; 

That the round world and all the sea 

Held nothing half so sweet as me!" 

I listened with a proud delight, 
Too rare for words to capture. 

Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight 
Would come to chill my rapture 

Could I foresee the tender bloom 

Of pansies round a little tomb.' 

Life holds some stern experience. 

As most of us discover, 
And I've had other losses since 

I lost my little lover; 
But still this purple pansy brings 
Thoughts of saddest, sweetest things. 

Mary E. Bradley. 



GOD IS LOVE. 

God is love: His mercy brightens 
All the path in which we rove: 

Bliss He wakes, and woe He lightens; 
God is wisdom, God is love. 

Chance and change are busy ever; 

Man decays, and ages move; 
But His mercy waneth never, 

God is wisdom, God is love. 

Even the hour that darkest seemeth 
Will his changeless goodness prove; 

From the mist His brightness streameth, 
God is wisdom, God is love. 

He with earthly cares entwineth 
Hope and comfort froin above. 

Everywhere His glory shineth ; 
God is wisdom, God is love. 



Sir John Bowring. 



OF POETRY AND SONG. 



543 



THAT NIGHT. 

You and I, and that night, with its perfume 

and glory ! 
The scent of the locusts— the light of the 

moon ; 
And the violin weaving the waltzers a 

story, 
Enmeshing their feet in the weft of the 

tune, 

Till their shadows uncertain 

Reeled round on the curtain, 
While under the trellis we drank in the 

June. 

Soaked through with the midnight tlie 
cedars were sleeping, 
Their shadowy tresses outlined in the 
bright 
Crystal, moon smitten mists, where the 
fountain's heart, leaping 
Forever, forever burst, full with delight; 
And its lisp on my spirit 
Fell faint as that near it 
Whose love like a lily bloomed out in the 
night. 

O your glove was an odorous sachet of 
blisses! 
The breath of your fan was a breeze of 
Cathay ! 

And the rose at your throat was a nest of 
spilled kisses! 
And the music!— in fancy I hear it to- 
day, 

As I sit here, confessing, 
Our secret, and blessing 

My rival who found us, and waltzed you 

away. 

Anonymous. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
The glitterring host bestud the sky; 

One star alone, of all the train. 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 



Hark! hark! to God the chorus breans, • 
From every host, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Savior speaks. 
It is the star of Bethelem. 

Once on the raging sea I rode. 

The storm was loud,— the night was 
dark, 
The ocean yawn'd, — and rudely blow'd 

The wind that tossed my foundering 
bark. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; 

When suddenly a star arose, 
It was the star of Bethelem. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 

It bade my dark forebodings cease; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 

Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 

Forever and for evermore. 

The star !— the star of Bethlehem ! 

Henry Kirke White. 



THE PASSION-FLOWER. 

Art thou a type of beauty or of power, 
Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin.? 
For each thy name denoteth, Passion- 
flower .'' 
O no ! thy pure corolla's depth within 
We trace a holier symbol; yea, a sign 
'Twixt God and man ; a record of that hour 
When the expiatory act divine 
Cancelled that curse which was our mortal 

dower. 
It is the Cross! Never hath Psalmist's 

tongue 
Fitlier of hope to human frailty sung 
Than this mute teacher in a floret's breast— 
A star of guidance the wild woods among, 
A page with more than lettered lore im- 

prest, 
A beacon to the havens of the blest. 

Sir Aubrey De Verb. 



544 



ILLUSTRATED HOME BOOK 



THE PASSAGE. 

Many a year is in its grave, 
Since I crossed this restless wave; 
And the evening, fair as ever, 
Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

Then in this same boat beside 
Sat two comrades old and tried — 
One with all a father's truth, 
One with all the fire of jouth. 

One on earth in silence wrought. 
And his grave in silence sought; 
But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

So, whene'er I turn my eye 
Back upon the days gone by, 
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me 
Friends that closed their course before me. 

But what binds us, friend to friend. 
But that soul with soul can blend.'' 
Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
Let us walk in soul once more. 

Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, — 

Take, I give it willingly; 

For, invis;ible to thee, 

Spirits twain have crossed with me. 

UDWIG UhLAND. 



CALL TO THE FLOWERS. 

Oh ! daffodil open your balmy buds 
In ruffles of vivid gold; 
For softly the sweet rain spirits sigh 
For your blossoms to unfold; 
Oh ! bravest bloom of the flow'ry throng 
The morn is here; though the night was 
long. 

The cascade's silvery trumpet calls 
Oh ! violet, sweet, awake ! 
'Neath your wind-built tent of dead, brown 
leaves 



Your long, deep slumber break; 

In a bower of your own bright leaves arise 

With your chalice blue as the April skies. 

Oh! cowslip, lift your sunny head 

From under its leafy hood ; 

The mellow music of south winds blows 

In the depths of the budding wood; 

And the breezy haunts of the bluebirds 

ring 
With the first rejoicing songs of spring. 

The beautiful May will soon be here ; 

The maples soon will burn 

With scarlet bloom, where the shadbush 

sho ws 
O'er shady banks of fern; 
There, darlings, awake from your winter 

dreams,' 
To the call of the wind, the rain and 

streams. 



TEARS. 

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer 

not 
More grief than ye can weep tor. That is- 

well — 
That is light grieving! lighter none befell 
Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. 
Tears! what are tears.? The babe weeps in, 

its cot, 
The mother singing; at her marriage-bell 
The bride weeps, and before the oracle 
Of high-faned hills the poet has forgot 
Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God 

for grace, 
Ye who weep only ! If, as some have done, 
Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place 
And touch but tombs, — look up! those tears 

will run 
Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, 
And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 





ueuiug BriKig; 




Upon the hills the wind is sharp and cold ; 
The sweet young grasses wither on the wold : 
And we, O Lord, have wandered from Thy fold 
But evening brings us home. 

Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks 
Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox 
Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks ; 
But evening brings us home. 

The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet 
Are cut and bleeding, and the Iambs repeat 
Their pitiful complaints ; oh, rest is sweet 
When evening brings us home. 



We have been wounded by the hunter's darts ; 
Our eyes are heavy, and our hearts 
Search for Thy coming ; when the light departs 
At evening bring us home. 

The darkness gathers. Through the gloom no star 
Rises to guide us. We have wandered far. 
Without Thy lamp we Know not where we are ; 
At evening brmg us home. 

The clouds are round us, and the snow-drifts thicken. 
O Thou, dear Shepherd, leave us not to sicken 
In the waste night : our tardy footsteps quicken ; 
At evening bring us home. Anon. 






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